Fire and Ice
by Night Elemental
Summary: Basically the story of FF6 in greater depth and detail. Might be considered slightly AU because of extra scenes, etc. Also may be slightly darker than the game.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: Just in case you happened to be suffering from the delusion that I own the rights to FF6 or any of the characters you recognize here, I don't. Wish I did, but alas, some things are not to be... Square owns everything, I own nothing, and I have no money so suing me would be a pathetic waste of time.

Author's note: This is basically a FF6 novelization, and I'm trying to stay true to the spirit of the game, and the characters' personalities as I see them, but I also intend to change or add quite a bit, for the reason that what works in a video game doesn't always make sense or sound right in a story, even a crappy fanfiction one. Plus I don't want this to be just like playing the game all over again. 

Prologue

_"Blind circles, moon and sun_

_body willing, mind undone_

_one pain ending_

_while another begins"_

_Let the Truth Sting, by David Grey_

            The world was white and grey, windblown, drifting, as utterly painfully silent as the static inside her own head. Cold. There was cold, inside and out, and emptiness hanging in the air and emptiness behind her eyes, and every feather touch of the senses – clean sharp taste of winter, smell of snow, prickle of snow on skin – skittered around the outside of the emptiness and was gone. There were words; they had no meaning, yet they were trapped for a moment in perfect, lucent clarity before the wind rose again and snatched them back into the white silence.

            And yet there was still something that watched from outside the noiseless place – fragmented, chained, barely conscious, but not blind and still struggling to stay afloat in the ebb and flow of dark tides. It would be easier to let go, to let herself be washed away, rocked into sleep by that static lullaby, and yet… drowning might be a pleasant death, in the end, but it is death nonetheless. She couldn't put such ideas into words or thoughts, didn't know the purpose of words anymore, but there was still a part of her which clung to consciousness with the mindless, instinctive will of an animal in a trap.

            She watched. She could do nothing but watch, observing from outside and far away, and try to find what it was the wind had stolen. She watched, and she saw pale slender hands – her own? – resting motionless against metal so cold that she registered, distantly, a sensation of pain. She saw metal all around her; she was nestled in it, protected, caged. A hulking suit of mechanical armor… a war machine, an ambulatory weapon – i _not so different, then, from myself._ /i That thought danced across her mind too quick to catch or understand, gone before it could be registered, but it left a burning trail in its wake. For a moment she felt fire surging upward though her veins to fill the place it had left, but then the cold slammed down again like a hammer against the anvil of her mind, and all was as it had been before – freezing and blank.

            The order came to march, and she saw herself obeying. She saw the snow fall in swirling eddies across the field of her vision. She felt the light prickle of cold as it melted on her bare arms, felt the stinging wind as it whipped across her face, blurring her sight with reflexive tears, but she never shivered and almost never blinked. She was aware that time was passing, or perhaps that she was passing through time, but one moment was indistinguishable from the next. She marched.

            And then it was different.

            Buildings rose up ahead of her, sudden and treacherous as icebergs through the fog of snow. A town built of wood and steel, with clouds of steam and coal-smoke hanging above it, a town sleeping safely in the arms of a jagged mountain range. The guards met her at the gate. To the silent observer peering from behind blank eyes they looked pitifully, painfully frail. They were shrouded in white robes and veils that hid all but their dark eyes, but no mask could conceal the bleak defiance that they clung to, or the resignation buried beneath. They readied their weapons, moved by that strange, meaningless challenge in their eyes as surely as her own body was held on puppet strings and moved by a stranger's design. They stank of fear.

            An order came. Fire rose in her again, rushed along her veins and filled her with burning power, this time without her volition. She could feel it being directed, channeled, and though the command came from outside, it was by her action, her instinct, that the fire came. And they burned. Flame seared through cloth and flesh, dancing brightly in the chill air. They died. She marched onward with the heavy tread of steel, over the still smoldering ash and the fading screams, into the city. More guards stood in her way, and she saw the knowledge of their own death flickering in their eyes. Those slender ghost-hands danced over the controls without thought or hesitation, and they died. She killed them, over and over. They burned like paper dolls, and their ashes drifted on the wind, indistinguishable from the blowing snow. The part of her that watched over her own shoulder knew that she was killing them, and tried desperately, helplessly to care.

            And then it was different again. The killing had stopped. The fire in her receded, not disappearing but burning low and quiet, kept at bay until her masters needed it. There was no snow, no ash anymore: she was inside the earth, in a tunnel of arching, rough-cut stone. Onward. Deeper, along the tunnel, down and down into the dark. Voices from behind ordered her onward, and she obeyed, but this time there was something there, ahead of her, buried within the heart of the mountain. She could feel it, drawing her, calling her. Something reaching out across the emptiness, through the wind and static and silence, a lifeline for the broken part of her to grab onto and follow up out of the depths. Fire flickered and danced somewhere outside of her reach, but it was not her fire: this was life and warmth, where she was ash and burning death. She wanted to touch it, to be a part of it, to let the cleansing fire wash away the chains that held her. Even within the emptiness she felt some echo of that yearning; it went deeper than conscious thought, and so slipped below and around the walls of ice and darkness that kept mind and body apart and enslaved. She piloted the mechanized armor blindly through the maze of tunnels, mindless still, but with purpose. Her masters followed, believing it was their orders that guided her steps.

            And finally, after a time that might have been minutes or hours, or no time at all, she reached the source of the calling. A block of some shimmering substance stood before her, rough and multifaceted; it might have been ice or crystal, or it might have been something utterly different. She drew closer, unable to turn or look away, pulled forward like the moon pulls the tides. The air around her hummed and crackled with power as she stepped forward, her skin tingling with electricity, her hair drifting about her head in a silvery nimbus. She could see, now, what was calling her from within the crystalline depths. She caught only an impression of what it was that lay dreaming within the ice… a rainbow of feather and scale, huge, ancient and serpentine… beautiful… before her eyes met, and were caught by, the creature's fierce, inscrutable gaze. 

And then

The world shifted and cracked wide beneath her

She fell, tumbling downward through rushing wind as static howled in her ears… drowning in a sea of white noise and emptiness… tossed by stormwinds and battered by waves of burning ice. She was lost in a torrent of flame and fury, fire coursing through her veins, cleansing her and burning her from the inside out. She heard a scream from somewhere far off, somehow both clear and distant enough to make itself heard through the storm, and she wondered vaguely if it might have been her own…

and then the chaos receded, and she was floating on the edge of dream, caught up in the vastness of an alien will. She felt the chains on her mind being gently lifted, the walls of ice melting and washing away. 

-- There, child. These chains cannot hold you – see? The crown is nothing but metal and dead magic, when seen from outside. They will not be able to catch you in that trap again.

The words – no, not words, nothing so simple or remote as mere sound given meaning – echoed inside her head, slicing cleanly through the blanket of fog that had enveloped her, and was now melting away as if evaporated by the morning sun. The static that had filled her head was fading, to be replaced with… pain. Pain and emptiness, a void which cried out to be filled with… what? Memory? Flame and wild magic, or a stranger's touch, or simply words in the dark? 

She reached out as reflexively, as desperately as a frightened infant, and was met with a strange, distant empathy.

_-- you freed me_

_-- I showed you the way to freedom /i_

It was a struggle to remain conscious. She was exhausted, she realized, tired to the bone. She kept feeling the dark fingers of sleep reaching out to take her, and she fought for the strength to stay alert. It frightened her, the idea of letting go her newfound freedom, losing control again. She clung tightly to wakefulness, and yet she knew she was fading.

_-- I don't understand. I can't… I…_

_            Help me… _

The world was dropping out from under her feet, her head spinning with fatigue and pain.

_-- You know I cannot. You have the strength to help yourself, but you must find it._

_-- I…_

_            I will. _

Darkness reached up to claim her.


	2. Awakening

Thanks to all who took the time to review. Its encouraging to know I'm not shouting into the void, here. I know the first part was slightly confusing – this is due to the fact that describing things well from the POV of a mindless puppet is a little beyond my skill level at the moment. I know what I want to say, but can't find the way to say it… sigh. Hopefully the next chapters will be clearer. Oh, yeah, and I got the italics fixed.

Wow… I seem to have taken many too many words to describe what is perhaps the most insignificant scene in the game… it seems I am completely unable to shut up. I was planning on getting all the way to the moogles in this chapter, which was originally going to feature Locke, but I didn't even get around to him… sorry. Not to worry, I should have the next chapter written fairly soon.

Chapter one: Awakening

They say slowly 

_Brings the least shock_

_But no matter how slow I walk_

_There are traces_

_Empty spaces_

_And doors and doors of locks_

_Testimony, by Ferron_

            She woke amid the smell and feel of satin, and the pain hadn't faded. It surrounded her, a dull pounding agony in the back of her mind, coloring her thoughts with red. She was lying in a large bed, uncomfortably yielding after the stone floor she could just barely remember collapsing on, and she was twisted up in sheets that clung to her with the clammy touch of her own cold sweat. She lifted a hand to her aching head, stifling a whimper.

            There was an old man peering at her from across the small room, seated in a simple chair, his eyes bright and fierce beneath a head of gray hair. She drew back instinctively, tensed to fight or flee, but despite the hawk-like cast to the man's weathered face, his direct gaze was merely curious, not predatory. _If he wanted to hurt me, _she decided, _he would have done so already. I can trust this one. A little._

            "Where am I?" she asked, her voice coming out a cracked, hesitant whisper.

            The old man blinked, startled.

            "Strange," he muttered, "I only just removed your crown."

            He made his way over to where she was lying, placed a hand hesitantly on her shoulder, only to remove it instantly when he felt her jerk away from his touch. His sharp eyes were kind, but she noted the caution with which he moved, like a man in the presence of a bomb which might or might not be set. _He's afraid_, she realized._ Of… me?_

            "Are you alright?" His voice was gentle, and, frightened or not, his concern for her seemed real. She wasn't sure what to think of that; it seemed strange, somehow, that anyone would want to help her. She didn't believe it. There had to be something behind this man's kindness, his concern... his fear. She tried to think, and discovered that she simply couldn't force her thoughts into any semblance of order. Logic slipped away from her, words failed, and through it all was the pain drumming behind her eyes, constant and distracting as a mosquito's whine. But she couldn't let anyone know, couldn't let anyone see the true depths of her ignorance, her weakness. The old man had asked her a question. He expected an answer, and she managed one, forcing the words out through gritted teeth and a haze of pain.

            "... head... hurts..."

            "Easy," he said gently, lifting something from a table by her bed. A strange, vicious-looking tangle of wires and sharp metal, made to fit snugly onto a human head. She had never seen anything like it before, couldn't find any reason for the feeling of nausea and stale terror that surged through her as she looked at it, and yet she recognized the presence of something unliving, yet evil. Perhaps she had misjudged that old man's kindness, if he kept a thing like this in his house. But no; he held the contraption with the same well-hidden caution that he had for her, and considerably more revulsion. 

            "This," he said, quietly as always but this time unable to keep the disgust from his voice, "is a Slave Crown. The others had complete control over you while you were wearing it."

            _I was wearing that thing? I was... being controlled. I..._

_            The others?_

            She had no recollection of being a slave, of wearing that twisted crown of metal... no recollection, in fact, of anything before this room, these confused, pain-filled moments. How was that possible? She searched her mind, wracked her memory in an effort to connect present to past, to find any path that led backwards from this unfamiliar room. But all her searches ended nowhere, taunting her with the blankness of a slate wiped clean. Her mind was an empty maze of sheer walls and locked doors, and she was trapped, unable to find her way backward or forward. The keys were there, somewhere, the keys that would open up the past like a book and let her see who she was. But she couldn't find them. Despairing, she turned to the old man who had... presumably... rescued her from these Others, the old man who she didn't trust completely, but who was her only compass in a world with no maps to show her the way.

            "I can't --" she started, then forced herself to continue, "I can't remember anything."

            "Don't worry. It'll all come back to you. In time, that is." 

            The old man smiled what he seemed to hope was a reassuring smile, then placed the Slave Crown down beneath the bedside table. She was relieved not to be looking at the thing anymore, but even out of sight its presence haunted her. She couldn't get it out of her mind. _I was wearing a machine that controlled me. Why? What did I do, that I don't remember? What did they do to me? What did they make me do?_ She shuddered convulsively. _Who am I?  _She fought down panic, but panic seemed to be winning, and along with it came a kind of mad, helpless rage. _Who am I? WHO?!_

            Something woke in her then, an echo of light and heat, flickering upward along her veins. Warmth that filled her, flames that danced behind her eyes and in the tips of her fingers, surging like the tide, turning her anger and fear to sheer power. She saw the old man shrink back, and understood suddenly that his fear of her all this time was justified. She could destroy him, destroy this fragile room utterly, burn away its mocking pain and strangeness, burn it all to ash. She could. She wanted to.

_            No._

Why not?__

_            He helped me. I can't. I..._

_            Who am I?_

_            What am I?_

_            I am..._

_            my name is..._

            "Terra," she whispered, "My name is Terra."

            The old man looked up, a sharp grin on his face, quite as if he hadn't been cowering just a moment before.

            "Impressive," he said, "I've never heard of anyone recovering this fast."

            _Then I'm not the first one to be used like this..._

_            Terra... yes. That sounds right. _She drew her pale hand across her face, testing the shape and feel of her skin, her hair, wishing she had a mirror to look into to see herself truly. _This is me. I'm Terra. But I don't know what that means..._

            "Open up!" a voice demanded from outside, loud and angry, jerking Terra abruptly away from her thoughts.

            "Give us the witch!"

            "Didn't expect them to catch on so quickly," the old man muttered to himself. "Got to get you out of here." He pulled her from the bed, heedless of her aversion to being touched, and steadied her on her feet as she almost fell.

            "Open this door, damn it! I know you're in there, Arvis, you old fool. That girl is an officer of the Empire!"

            _Enemies? But I can kill them all with a thought, surely he knows that... Why should I flee?_

            Terra turned suddenly in the old man's grasp, wanting answers.

            "What is going on?" she demanded, trying to keep desperation from edging into her voice. "Empire? Witch? Why do they–"

            The man scowled, shaking his head. "No time for questions now, no time... over here." He pulled her toward a door set in the far wall of the room. _A back way out... lucky. Except that he was expecting this._

            "Oh, yes," he added, "and even you won't get far without a weapon…" He bent to pick up something that had been leaning against the wall by the door: a sword, plain, but the lack of decoration seemed only to emphasize the way the firelight gleamed on the blade's sharp edge. He held it out to her, hilt first, bowing his head in a strangely formal gesture.

            "This is yours." He said quietly. "You know how to use it. You mind may not remember, but your body does. If it comes to a fight, don't try to think, just let your instincts guide you. You'll be alright."

            She nodded, taking the sword from his hands and holding it up before her. Perhaps he was right about the weapon; it felt light in her hands, and she felt right holding it, somehow complete. She tried a few passes and parries, feeling how the blade moved, the weight and balance of it, the way it seemed like an extension of her own self. She smiled slightly. If there was some part of her that remembered this, perhaps the rest of her past was still hiding somewhere out of reach. Perhaps she still had a chance to discover who she was. _And when that day comes, nobody will ever use me again. Not even you, Arvis, kind though you are. I won't play anyone's games._ Her smile turned grim.

            "Terra."

            The old man was talking. Caught up as she was in her thoughts, she had, for a moment, forgotten why she was standing in front of this drafty wooden door. Now she remembered, and it sent a shiver through her. _My enemies. Coming to take me back. No. I'll die first. I'll kill them, or myself, but I won't let them have me._

            "You can make your way out through the old mines. I'll keep these idiots occupied. But, Terra..." he hesitated, then seemed to make a decision. "These aren't evil men, I can tell you that. Please, don't hurt them unless you have to."

            She nodded, not knowing what to say, than hurried out the back door and into the night.

            The cold was like a slap in the face. The sudden sharpness of it drew the breath from her lungs in an involuntary gasp. The bitter wind bit through her thin clothing, numbing her fingers and stinging her cheeks, but it could not touch the core of inner warmth to which she clung tightly, and the icy night air served to clear her head. Everything held the clean taste and smell of new snow, though here and there lingered a hint of coal or oil smoke, the signs of an industrial city. Such scents seemed almost disturbingly familiar, but she had no time to wonder about such things, not if she wanted a clean escape.

            She took the only way available, a thin path bordered on one side by her rescuer's house, and on the other by a stark, rising cliff. Snow fell serenely around her as she ran, down the alley and across a high, narrow bridge that rose above the snow-covered rooftops and lighted windows below. She wished she could have gotten a closer look at the city, which seemed to be a fascinating mix of archaic and technological. Gigantic iron and steel gears stood side by side with old wooden houses, and steaming pipes winding everywhere. But, again, there was no time to stop and wonder. She hurried on.

            Across the bridge was a wide, flat ledge, set amid the snow-covered peaks that surrounded the city. Leading down into the rock wall in front of her was a rough tunnel, shored up by rotting wood planks. _The old mines? It must be. I'll need light…_Well, that, at least, wasn't a problem. She extended a hand, palm up, and called into being a tiny, flickering globe of flame. She wasn't sure how she did it, exactly, but it seemed as natural to her as breathing, and no more difficult.

            Down, then, through a long-abandoned tunnel, the uneven floor littered with debris. Shadows danced and flickered around her, thrown by the burning sphere that now hung in front of her, lighting her way like a will 'o wisp. Her footsteps seemed too loud as she hurried through the earth, the ceiling too low, the darkness too thick and heavy beyond her circle of light. She had no idea what lay ahead, and she knew all too well what was behind her.

            And then she heard the sounds of pursuit, the echoes of booted feet – distorted by the reverberation of sound underground, but she could tell that they were close, and they knew the ways of the mines as she didn't. Immediately she extinguished her light and pressed herself up against one damp cave wall, using it to keep her sense of direction in the dark. But her pursuers would have torches of their own – she couldn't trust darkness to hide her. _I have to get out of the main passage._ Slowly, carefully, she felt her way along the tunnel, which was a particularly unpleasant combination of jagged and slimy under her blind touch. By the time it was safe to rekindle any kind of light, she suspected that she would be covered in scrapes and scratches. Finally she found what she had been hoping for: a narrow, roughly cut side-passage, leading off at a sharp angle from the central way. If she was lucky, would pass this tunnel right by. If she was unlucky, it was still an excellent place to make a stand – one person could fight many here at no disadvantage. _He told me not to hurt them…unless I have to. _She hoped she didn't have to fight – outnumbered as she was, she might be forced to fight with every power at her disposal – and that meant fighting to kill. _I'm sorry. If I hurt your friends, I'm sorry. But I won't let them take me._

            They were close now. The cavern walls brought echoes of their hushed voices to her ears: _"…no mercy… we won't have a chance if we hold back… After what I saw tonight, can't say I'll be exactly sorry if that little witch feels some pain…"_ Terra shook her head softly. _Whatever happened, what you saw me do… It wasn't by my choice. You must know-_ But there was no way they could know the truth, that she had been merely a pawn in some stranger's game. And by the sound of it, there would be no chance for a deadly misunderstanding to be averted.

            She retreated further down the passageway she had chosen, and realized her mistake when she fetched up against the cold finality of a dead end. She tested the granite wall in front of her with meticulous urgency, yet her search failed to reveal any unnoticed cracks or ways out. She was trapped. _Stupid, stupid, stupid. How could I be so stupid?_

She could hear them stop outside her tunnel, black silhouettes moving warily against the shadow-stage of the cavern's wall, distorted and strange. The beams of light from their hooded lanterns flickered this way and that, bright beacons in a sea of night, searching, seeking… One of her pursuers made an abrupt gesture, and immediately two of his fellows turned down the path where she was cornered. If she was lucky, and very quiet, perhaps she could slip by them… no. It was too late. Light flung itself across her face, momentarily blinding her. The man holding the lantern gave a surprised cry – obviously, he hadn't been expecting to catch her here – but he recovered quickly, calling out to his friends.

"She's up there! Get her!"

Terra didn't wait to be attacked. If she seized the advantage of surprise, perhaps she would be able to break out of this trap and escape deeper into the mines – without resorting to her lethal powers. She leapt forward – only to feel the ground tumbling out from under her feet in a terrifying lurch. The stone floor cracked and groaned and finally collapsed beneath her as she struggled vainly for footing, and then she was free-falling, a scream dying in her throat as she hit the ground hard. Pain hit her like a tsunami, overwhelming her, knocking the breath from her lungs. There was a noise like thunder, and she wasn't certain whether it was the deafening avalanche of rock crashing around her or the blood pulsing in her ears. Darkness blossomed behind her eyes, and once again she surrendered to the call of sleep.

Author's note: Hmmm…. I wonder if I should end every chapter with Terra collapsing into unconsciousness… nah, its already getting tedious. I just needed a stopping place. Next chapter: Locke is introduced, and much weirdness with moogles ensues.


	3. Thief's Honor

BEHOLD! The chapter that would not die! Sorry, everyone, for the late update. I had a lot of stuff going on this past week – 2 papers and a poetry portfolio, among other things – and I just didn't have much in the way of free time. And its going to be even worse for the rest of the month, I suspect, so… sorry. At least you get a heck of a long chapter this time – I think I literally doubled the length of the fic here. Not that much actually _happens_, but it takes a long time about not happening.  Oh, yeah, and sorry for all the cursing, and later on for the… ickyness.

Lynda-chan: Yes, I agree, there is a serious lack of good FF6 fiction out there, which is actually what prompted me to actually get an account here in the first place. And to add insult to injury, FF6 has to share a space with every single random weird final fantasy offshoot fic that people write, while FFX-2 gets its own section. Aaargh! I have nothing against new games, but it would certainly be nice if more people remembered or even got a chance to play some of the old ones.

A/N: About Terra's eye … I couldn't tell what it really is from her picture, but I've seen it described as either green or gold several places, and I happen to like gold better, so gold it is. Also, I had a bit of trouble getting into Locke's mind – he's never been one of the characters that I was particularly able to identify with, though I certainly don't dislike him – so if this chapter isn't as good, that's probably why. 

Chapter 3: Thief's Honor

If war were a game that a man or a child  
Could think of winning  
What kind of rule  
Can overthrow a fool  
And leave the land with no stain?

Song of Sand, by Suzanne Vega 

            A thin, wiry man perched easily atop a snow-blanketed roof, watching the commotion below with bitter fascination. Soldiers were swarming like wasps in the otherwise empty streets, protecting their fallen nest from a danger that they already half-realized had come and gone. They were scouring the city for anything and anyone that didn't seem to belong, and after what had happened here, he wouldn't be surprised if they leaned toward a shoot-first-and-don't-bother-with-the-questions attitude… nor could he quite manage to make himself blame them. Fortunately for him, diligent as the guards were, they still weren't in the habit of looking up. And fortunately for them, harm to Narshe was the last thing on the young man's mind.

From his high seat on top the tiled roof, the city lay before him like a map, streets drawn in moon-silvered snow, lined by the soft glow of gas-fueled lamps – a few broken, most casting their circles of light around them like beacons in a sea of snow and shadow. It was above this sea that rooftops rose like islands, and across these islands that Locke Cole moved unseen, safe from the troubled dreams of those who had managed to reclaim some shred of sleep and the watchful eyes of those who clung to wakefulness like a talisman. What Locke observed from above was interesting; he'd seen a bit of combat in his time, and he'd never before encountered quite so… so _specific_ a raid. Most of Narshe had remained completely untouched by the violence, but a wide swathe of destruction had been cut through the center of town, from the charred city gates down to the newly excavated mines – _where they supposedly found that esper_._ Big surprise there. _The strongest fires had been brought under control long ago, but small flames still sent their plumes of black smoke spiraling upward, adding to the hazy shroud that continually hung over the industrial city. The chaos that had set Narshe ablaze was over, and Locke had arrived too late to do anything but watch the aftermath from above. Even the wounded – surprisingly few; it seemed that those who had gotten in the way of… whatever it was… were very dead indeed, while all others were unscathed – had long been taken care of. _Well, Arvis called me here long before anyone could have suspected this could happen. Maybe he still has something for me to do…_ Locke didn't like uselessness. It was a feeling he knew all too well, the chilly knowledge that things went wrong and people died and there was _nothing_ he could do to change it. The worst part was the persistent, nagging idea that if he had done something sooner, had gotten there earlier, had just been a little bit _faster_ than everything would have been all right. Logic had always told him that such thoughts were ridiculous, but then, when had logic ever been able to stand against the dull weight of memory? _This isn't helping. You can't hold yourself responsible for not stopping an attack you didn't know about, in a city you just traveled leagues to even reach! You're being an idiot, Locke. _He ran a weary hand through his ragged hair, trying to force himself to focus on the present, while his mind kept trying to slip back into what was long past. Ghosts had a way of creeping back at the most inopportune moments, and Locke was acquainted with some very strong ghosts indeed, but now was not the time to let himself fall prey to memory. The fact that he was exhausted from the road and in desperate need of a good meal and a bath wasn't helping a bit… _Think. Focus on the moment._

He couldn't be sure about the details of the attack, but then, he didn't need details to understand what had happened here. _The Empire.__ What else? When is it ever anything else?_ The question here was whether Narshe had managed somehow to repel the surprise attack, or the Empire had simply gotten what they wanted – the mysterious esper he'd been hearing such intriguing rumors about, of course – and left. 

_Damn them. DAMN them!_ Anger seethed in the pit of Locke's stomach and rose like bile in his throat. Narshe had been a peaceful city, until this day, content in its own wealth and isolation, offering harm to no one. But then, that hadn't saved Tzen or Maranda, had it? No, the Empire took what it wanted and burned the rest, and no one so much as noticed until it was their town being put to the torch, their own friends and family shot down in the streets. Narshe had gotten off easy, probably because that ice-bitch of a general hadn't been around to do the job properly. He scowled, slamming a fist into an open palm.The city's leaders had thought their isolation would be the only shield they needed – _And who knows,_ he mused bitterly, _it might have been, if they hadn't been so stupid as to go trumpeting the news of their newly discovered esper all over the world. What is Gestahl planning with those damned things, anyway? Oh, hell, it doesn't matter now, anyway. I've got a job to do here. Arvis is cursing my guts for being late, no doubt._

Locke knew the rooftops of most cities, Narshe included, better than most inhabitants know the streets. It was no difficult matter to find his destination, up in the northern outskirts, backed right up against the mountains and the mines that were the city's lifeblood. He considered making an unannounced entrance via some window and catching old Arvis unawares, just to take the man down a peg or two – in Locke's estimation, the old fool could be entirely too self-satisfied. Thankfully, common sense prevailed and he decided that tonight of all nights such a joke would not be appreciated.

He dropped down lightly on Arvis's doorstep, brushed the clinging snow from his jacket, and strode up to the door. It was open; the frigid wind had already blown drifts of snow into the entryway, and it was melting into a rapidly spreading pool. Though light was streaming through the windows and the open doorway, the place had a bleak feel to it, a sense of resignation that seemed utterly and frighteningly out of place. Being a… professional… himself, Locke had little trouble recognizing that both the lock and the door itself appeared to have been forced… none too gently, either. _Did the Empire… Oh, gods and espers, tell me he made it out in time. Let him be safe. _Locke had never gotten along with Arvis particularly well, but that didn't mean he had ever wished the old man any ill… And if the Empire even suspected the man was a Returner, it would be an execution in Vector for him, on a charge of terrorism – if he was lucky. There were far too many unpleasant rumors concerning secret imperial laboratories, monsters, experimentation on prisoners… even if half of what Locke had heard was false, what he knew for a fact to be true was enough to give any man nightmares.

Any enemies that might have been here were surely gone by now, but Locke had spent most of his life plying a particularly dangerous trade, and he hadn't survived as long as he had by being incautious. If the Imperials had information about Arvis's plans and affiliations, it wasn't beyond belief to expect them to know about Locke as well, or for them to know he had business here. Unsheathing a steel dirk, Locke slipped through the door, soundless as a cat in the dark, and with a similar predatory gleam in his eye. If there had been any soldiers waiting to trap a thief, their first and last awareness of their prey would have involved a knife slipped between the ribs or drawn quickly across the throat from behind – Locke had his notions of honor in combat, but tended to reserve them for honorable opponents. As it was, he was able to get a long glance at the trashed front room – and the old man sitting bound and gagged in one of the few chairs still intact, glowering at the wreckage with an irascible gleam in his sharp eyes – before making his presence known. After he was satisfied there was no trap or trick lurking behind some corner, he hurried forward to loose the old man from his bonds.

"It certainly took you long enough!" Arvis said with a mocking grin, as Locke removed the gag and set to work untying the knots that bound him to the chair. "How goes the robbing and plundering trade?" Locke could see that the old man was covered in bruises and scrapes, and a thin trickle of blood was running down the side of his face, but Locke wasn't sure a direct hit with from an artillery shell would be capable of denting the fellow's sarcasm. Locke tried to keep a similar grin from spreading across his own face; this was serious business, but fatigue, tension and worn-out anger had combined with relief at the old man's safety to fill Locke with a kind of thin, giddy amusement. He recognized this feeling as well; it was the sort of thing that left you giggling madly at your own stupid jokes as a battle rages around you, or the walls of a prison seem to be closing in. It was a kind of mental release valve, a survival trick that served to prevent fear and stress from making the jump to sheer, raving insanity. Locke was, at the moment, surfing waves of mingled anxiety and relief, a state in which amusement was in itself an anchor to reality.

"I prefer," Locke said in his most put-upon voice, "the term treasure hunter. Or, if you must, professional redistributor of wealth." In a more serious tone, he added, "What happened here, and… to put this bluntly, how come they didn't kill you?" He finished with the last of the knots, and the old man stood up, stretching creakily and rubbing one bruised and battered shoulder. The man seemed in surprisingly good health and good cheer for a man of his age who had just taken a beating and seen his living room demolished. Locke still didn't particularly like him, but hadn't prevented a sort of grudging respect and comradeship from developing, and it was moments like this when Locke found himself honestly admiring the old man's spirit.

Arvis raised one bushy gray eyebrow, still grinning wryly at the young thief. "They seemed to think I was acting out of a sense of misguided chivalry. That, or bewitched into treachery. They weren't about to kill an old man if they could help it."

Locke blinked in disbelief. "I wasn't aware the Empire accepted chivalry as an excuse for sedition. Or witchcraft, for that matter. If they did, every prisoner in Vector would be pleading ensorcelled." 

"The Emp-" Arvis started, then broke away in a peal of sardonic laughter, "The Empire had nothing to do with this," he said, waving a hand at the room, which looked to Locke's eyes as though it had been hit by a very small and direct hurricane. Splintered wood and broken crockery littered the floor, and Locke found himself wondering if there was anything left unbroken in the place. "_This_ was done by the good city of Narshe, and I intend to see that they pay damages, too. Now close that damn door, why don't you? The cold's getting in."

Locke stared. "_Narshe__ Guards_ beat you up?"

"Nobody beat me up, boy, I fought them to a standstill! If I hadn't been outnumbered… Now, about the door?"

Locke sighed, closed the door, and returned to lean against a table with a knife stuck in it up to the hilt. _Maybe more of a barroom brawl than a hurricane. What in the name of all the hells have I stumbled into this time?_

"I don't suppose you plan to tell me _why_ you were fighting the entire army of Narshe single-handedly, or whatever tall-tale is on the tip of your tongue? Or did you call me from Figaro for a chat and a tea-party?"

"What happened here really isn't important, or rather, not important enough to justify wasting time," Arvis said, suddenly serious, and slightly… hesitant? Yes, it was obvious enough that there was something the old man wasn't sure Locke was going to like.

"There's a girl I need you to find."

"A girl you need me to find." Locke said flatly.

"She won't be too difficult to identify. Green hair and golden eyes aren't exactly common."

_Green hair and…_ Locke shook his head, suddenly realizing where he had heard those traits before. He had never seen her, of course, but he had talked to a Returner soldier who had faced her in battle and somehow made it out alive. _"They told her to kill, and she did. They told her to… to burn everything. And she did." _The man had said, his defenses lowered by too much wine, _"I'm telling you, Locke, that was no human girl. That was a machine."_ The Sorceress was thought in most places to be a rumor, a fear-tactic of the Empire's, perhaps. Locke knew she was real, and he understood perfectly well the deadly ruthlessness that lurked behind her supposedly beautiful face. _Why does Arvis want me to search for…_ there was only one logical explanation he could think of, and it was a stupid one.

"You want me," Locke said in disbelief, "to assassinate the Imperial Sorceress. You. Want me. To assassinate the Imperial Sorceress. _You want me to –_"

"I do NOT want you to assassinate anybody. I need you to rescue and protect the so-called Imperial Sorceress, and I need you to do it _quickly_."

"You've lost your mi–"

"Come take a look at this," Arvis interrupted curtly, "and tell me if you still think I'm crazy." He led Locke into the back room, his vise-like grip around the thief's wrist, a fierce glower on his hawkish face. The room itself looked to have escaped the violence which had occurred out front; it was sparsely furnished with a bare table, a rumpled bed, a dresser, and several shelves of old and dusty books. Another door in the back wall of the room had also been left ajar, but Arvis paid it no heed. Instead he pulled what looked like a twisted crown of metal thorns and wires from beneath the bedside table, muttering angrily beneath his breath.

"That's…" Locke breathed incredulously.

"Yes." The old man said quietly. "If they had caught me with this, it would have been more than my life was worth." He smiled sourly at Locke. "She was wearing it. The Empire was controlling her. And now they've lost control of her, but Narshe doesn't know that. Our soldiers have orders to shoot her on sight – she's too dangerous to do otherwise, even now that she's taking orders from no one, but… she's also an innocent. I think I'd prefer to avoid a… shall we say… a tragic accident, especially since powers like hers might be able to turn the tide of this war. Now do you understand?"

Locke nodded. "I'll find this girl of yours. I'll protect her. But I don't intend to pressure her into fighting. Do _you_ understand?"

"I never intended you to. The important thing is to keep her alive and _out of the Empire's hands._ They'll be pursuing her, of course, but they aren't the immediate danger… I sent her into the mines. You know your way around there, right?"

"Of course I do." And he did. He had been down there before, exploring far past the Narshi coal mines and into the older, deeper tunnels that lay beneath, seeking treasures and relics from an age long forgotten. He knew the secrets of those old passages better than anyone still living, with the possible exception of the moogles, and he understood those strange and shy creatures perhaps better than any other human did. Locke grinned.

"Your girl's as good as found, Arvis."

Locke took the same path Terra had, back behind the house, over the bridge and into the mines. The girl's footprints, and those of the guards chasing her, had long been obscured by the thickly falling snow; Locke hoped the she was all right, that nothing had happened to her in the time he took to find her. Inside the mines, he gave the first caverns only cursory examination. There were only so many ways one could go at first, and most of them wound up as dead ends. He walked on, noting within the circle of his lamplight any signs that a person might have passed, and which way they seemed to be going. There wasn't much to go by; even the heaviest footfalls don't leave tracks in stone, after all. Locke thought for a moment that he would have to go by pure luck, but then he happened to cast his lantern on one wall of the large main corridor. The rough rocks were covered with a sort of mossy slime, and he could see where someone had been pressed up against it, hugging the wall. Someone had felt their was along through the dark, down the main passage, off to the side – there! _But that way's a dead-end… an unstable one too. They stopped excavating there because the floor wasn't safe._ He would have to check it out anyway; for all he knew, the girl might still be hiding back there. As long as he stayed up against the wall, he wouldn't trigger any cave-ins. Locke headed down the tunnel, looking around for anything out of the ordinary. What he saw made him draw in his breath in a sharp breath and curse angrily. Down near the end of the tunnel, a large section of the floor had collapsed, leaving a gaping pit that opened into the darkness below. Locke was reluctant to get too close, but he had a feeling – no, he _knew_ – what had caused this cave-in. _That girl… she's dead. _There was no way – _no way_ – anyone could have survived. _But if she did…_ no. People don't get up and walk away from something like that. _If she did, she'd be badly in need of medical help. _If she did, it would be too late by now anyway. _You don't know that! She's a sorceress, she might not even be human, you know from experience those magic-enhanced Imperials don't die easy…_

_And if she is out there somewhere clinging to life, every moment you pass standing here is another nail in her coffin. Do you want to be too slow again?!_

Locke realized he was clenching his fists so tightly that his fingers were going numb around the hilt of his knife, and forced himself to relax. Then, summoning up his mental map of the maze of tunnels, he hurried off into the dark.

He knew that it was possible, and not too difficult, to reach a place directly underneath the collapsed tunnel. Left, and forward, following the wall… down a set of stairs skillfully carved into the stone by a people far older than the first inhabitants of the city known as Narshe… south, and down again… He was getting into moogle territory here; the reclusive creatures might be small and unimposing, but they could also be positively dangerous, surprisingly warlike, and definitely suspicious of humans. Locke was one of the few humans on good terms with them, so he could count on being left alone, but he wondered suddenly if the Narshe soldiers might not be having problems. The uneasy agreement was that the moogles didn't trouble the mines, and Narshe stayed out of the lower caves… and that unwritten treaty might well have been violated tonight. The moogles knew the lay of the caves as thoroughly as a man knows the rooms of his house; if they took a dislike to a stranger, they could, and would, make life for that poor trespasser either very difficult or very short.

Locke's musings on moogle diplomacy, or lack thereof, were interrupted when the tunnel he was in suddenly opened out into a cavern which itself led into a labyrinth of narrow, convoluted passages. She was there, crumpled on the floor amid a heap of broken rock and a tangle of startlingly green hair. Locke gave a small sigh of relief when he saw that she was still breathing, raggedly and shallowly, but without the sound of a pierced lung. _Not too slow. I made it in time! Not too slow!_ Locke was no doctor, but he knew enough of battlefield medicine to at least avoid making anything worse. He knelt beside her, deftly and cautiously checking for cracked ribs, broken bones, signs of internal bleeding; there were none. The worst this girl would suffer from a fall that might well have killed a normal person would be a few cuts and bruises. _How is that possible?_

"Girl," he muttered to himself, "you are either very lucky or very tough. Or both." _Maybe she _is _a machine… _It was at least as likely as any other explanation for this strange miracle. He turned her over gently, holding her limp body in one arm, for the first time getting a good look at the girl he had been sent to protect… Skin that looked as though it had never seen the sun, a thin, delicate face beneath a tangled mane of green hair, arched eyebrows above gently tilted eyes... Her face was plastered with dirt and her own blood, which had flowed in thin streams from her nose and mouth and a dozen small cuts and was now mostly dried in dull red smears across her ashen skin. She would have been beautiful in spite of the blood, if not for a ghostly aura of pain which seemed to hang about her, making seem at once older and younger than she really was. _She looks like a ghost. Like a spirit. Something that doesn't belong in this world… _The girl's pale hand was clenched so tightly around some object hanging from a chain around her neck that Locke thought her nails must have been cutting into her palm. He reached to loosen her fingers, and drew back his hand in surprise; her skin was fever-hot. _What is this?_ Considering the frigid atmosphere or the caverns, he would have expected her to be chilled, shivering; instead it felt as though she was burning up from the inside. _Damn. She needs help. _He had to get her out of here, find someplace with a healer… he had no idea what was wrong, but it seemed serious. _Maybe you're not so lucky after all…_

"Kupo…"

Locke jumped to his feet and spun around, cursing. _Cripes! Little bastards are _quiet_ when they want to be…_ He stared down at the creature before him: three feet tall, covered in white fur, with tiny bat-like wings… it looked a bit like a living child's toy, and the overall effect should have been cute or amusing, but somehow it wasn't. Perhaps it was the tall steel pike the moogle was clutching, or the warrior's gleam in his dark eyes… either way, Locke figured he'd better be polite.

"What is it?" He asked.

"Enemies ahead, kupo. There." The moogle gestured with his spear toward the maze of tunnels ahead.

_Just what I needed… why now?_

"Thanks for the warning. Imperials or Narshi?"

"Who cares? Humans are humans. They shouldn't be here, kupo."

"How many?"

The moogle shrugged. "Too many," it said, then grinned fiercely, "or at least, too many for you alone…" Locke had to smile. Moogles might not be particularly amiable, but once you proved yourself trustworthy, they made good friends.

"So you're offering to help me?"

"They shouldn't be here," The moogle repeated, then made a sharp gesture with his free hand. At the sign, about a dozen of his companions emerged from the rocks and shadows of the surrounding cavern, clutching a motley collection of weapons. He said a few words to them in their own strange language, and they dispersed into the tunnels ahead, quickly vanishing from sight. He turned back to Locke.

            "They're after that girl, kupo?"

            Locke nodded slowly. "Its… kind of a misunderstanding."

            "You need someplace to hide. Follow me."

            "What about –"

            "They're in no danger. Bring her."

            Locke was too tired to argue. He bent to pick up the unconscious girl, lifting her as gently and carefully as a man might hold some fragile and beautiful creation of spun glass. She was surprisingly light, almost weightless, _almost,_ Locke thought suddenly, _as though she isn't completely in this world at all._ She shifted in his arms, making a small noise of fear and pleading before lapsing back into oblivion.

            "Its all right," he told her quietly, "No one's going to hurt you." He didn't think she was awake enough to hear him, but somehow, that really didn't matter right then. It was a promise of sorts, made not to her but to himself. No one was going to hurt this childlike, ethereal stranger, not while Locke was alive to stop them.

            The moogle waited for Locke to balance the girl in his arms before setting off into the darkness, heading back the way Locke had come. Locke followed, and after an interminable number of twists and turns, they stopped in front of a blank granite wall indistinguishable from any other wall in the caves. Locke's guide set down his pike and placed both furry hands on the stone, muttering a few strange-sounding words almost too low to hear. Locke jerked back as the wall seemed to shimmer and ripple, and the girl moved again in his arms, shivering. When he looked again at the wall, it had a tall wooden door set in it, with warm golden light streaming through the cracks and casting shadows on the walls in sharp relief. The moogle grinned at him again.

            "Home, sweet home, kupo!"

            A/N: About Locke not fighting… I had planned to have him fight them, I really did, but this was running really long as it was, and I'm no good at writing combat, so if I wanted something worth reading, this update might have been delayed maybe another week. Sorry.

By the way, I feel like I ought to apologize for how slow this is going, in terms of plot – 3 chapters and they're not out of the mines yet. Does this bug you, or do you find it boring, or is it OK?


	4. Evil Dreams

Locke's understanding of things like electricity is partial and confused. Any mistakes are deliberate.

Chapter 3: Evil Dreams

in the ink of an eye i saw you bleed  
through the thunder i could hear you scream  
solid to the air i breathe  
open-eyed and fast asleep  
falling softly as the rain  
no footsteps ringing in your ears  
ragged down worn to the skin  
warrior raging, have no fear

Secure Yourself, by the Indigo Girls

The small cave was decorated with bright, geometrically patterned rugs and tapestries, and illuminated by strange, fragile-looking glass globes which seemed to contain their own inner fire, fueled by no oil or candle that Locke could see. He wondered briefly if the lights were electric – if magic wasn't the only wonder the strange creatures had kept all these long years – but he knew enough about the recently rediscovered technology to realize that such things required cords and wires for the lightning to flow through – free-hanging electric globes were completely impossible. _Magic it is, then_, a thought that both troubled and reassured him. Locke had always held a fascination that bordered on obsession for the old stories and legends, but his experience with such things had always been across the distance of a flickering campfire, or a thousand years of dust and ruin. The idea that he himself might live to see legend made flesh seemed increasingly likely in these troubled times – _if,_ he thought, with a glance at the girl who now lay sleeping on a soft mat, her silvery-green hair falling across her thin, pallid face in a tangled veil – _if that hasn't happened already…_ The thought left him with a strange, disjointed feeling, as though nothing he was experiencing was truly real. The girl herself seemed half dream and half spirit, not truly tied to reality at all. _The girl… she's real enough, and… I'm worried about her._ It was almost funny, how quickly his attitude toward the Sorceress had changed. He could still remember hearing tales of the Imperial Witch, her power and her utter ruthlessness. He had believed those stories, when many people hadn't, and he could remember, distantly, the tense fear and cold hatred which that mention of the Sorceress evoked – in himself as well as in others. Old Arvis's slave crown had changed all that. Looking at that vicious thing, he had been forced to see her differently… as a puppet, a living weapon in the hands of cruel masters, with neither knowledge nor control of her acts. But even then, he had not truly seen her as human; but now, watching the girl sleep, seeing shadows of pain and terror ghost across her face and vanish as she twisted in the grip of some evil fever-dream… now, he was beginning to.

And he didn't like it. He didn't like the fact that he was coming to care for this sleeping child, partly because, in some dark, hidden place in his heart, he still saw the Imperial Sorceress when he looked at her face, and that old fear and hate was difficult to dispel completely. Partly because even as he recognized that she had been helpless to prevent her actions, he was still deeply, deeply frightened of what she might do with her powers now that she was free. But most of all, because she reminded him, lying there, pale as death and twice as silent, of another ghost he hadn't been able to save.

Her situation didn't seem logical, and though Locke had never placed quite so much faith in reason as his friend Edgar – that man seemed to believe that there was a perfectly rational explanation for everything, up to and including these espers that the Empire was so fascinated by – he was becoming more and more troubled by the girl's bizarre condition. _She survived a fall that should have been lethal practically unscathed, and now… this. I'd guess a bad knock on the head, but that doesn't explain this fever of hers, or, for that matted, why she looks so gods-cursed frightened._ One of the girl's hands was still wrapped around the pendant she wore around her neck, clutching it like a lifeline. Her fingers had not loosened, but they had slipped enough for Locke to see glints of a shimmering crimson stone which caught the warm light of the fire-globes and reflected it, seeming to glow with its own light. The girl's other hand was flung limply across a tasseled pillow, and Locke took it in his own gloved hand, holding it tightly. _Its all right, you don't have to be afraid. _ He marveled again at how unnaturally warm her skin was, wondered if she was aware of anything outside of her own fear-laced dreams, and if so, whether or not his gesture had provided any comfort. He thought perhaps it did, because she closed her fingers around his hand, grasping it almost as tightly as she did the crimson pendant; he found himself thankful that he was wearing gloved, because if he hadn't been, her nails surely would have been drawing blood. Even so, her grip was painfully tight; those frail-looking fingers held an unexpected strength, and Locke suspected that if she clenched her hand much more the bones in his own would literally snap. Still, he didn't let go or try to pull away; he had a sudden, strange feeling that his touch and the odd necklace were the only two things she had to moor her to this world. _She's not just sleeping, _he thought suddenly, _she's trapped. I can hold her here, but I can't show her the way back._ Maybe the moogle healer that his guide had gone to fetch could, but Locke found himself doubting it. He thought she would have to find the way back from wherever she was by herself, and he wasn't at all sure that she could.

Meanwhile, Terra dreamed…

            _She was in a small room with walls of corroded metal, walls that seemed to press down around her where she sat, manacled hand and foot to a hard metal throne. She could feel the steel chill of it through her thin clothing, and the manacles cut into her skin, drawing thin trickles of blood, but she had long since stopped caring. Time was beginning to take on new meaning; she had given up counting seconds, because every second seemed to reach past the horizon of eternity, time stretched to the breaking point, each successive moment promising a future of pain. Her own breath seemed blasphemously loud in the silent, stagnant air, as though too loud a noise might rip right through the tenuous fabric of the moment and send her spiraling down into a haze of nightmare and delirium. She waited, white-knuckled hands clenched on the metal arms of her prison, listening for the sound that she knew would come._

_            Footsteps._

_            "I won't scream this time." She whispered to herself. "I won't scream."_

_            She knew she would. She always did, eventually._

_            Footsteps, and then the click of a key in a lock, and the sound of a heavy metal door swinging open. And then _he _was there, draped in bright scarves and feathers, his sadistic doll's face painted in a carnival mask. He smelled of greasepaint and blood, and old, sour magic. She shrank back, shuddering convulsively, while her mind cursed her body's reflexive reaction. She hated to let him see her weak like this, helpless and at his mercy. She hated him. It made no difference, in the end, but hatred, like pain, was something to cling to. It forced her to remember that she was still alive, was still a person. That they could do what they wanted to her body, but they would never touch her mind. _

He_ stepped toward her daintily, a twisted smile on his blood-red lips. She saw that he was holding something, some machine, a spiky crown-like thing that he cradled with vicious glee. Someday, she promised him silently, someday I'll repay all my pain tenfold. Someday it will be you screaming. He smiled as if reading her mind, his dark eyes twinkling with almost childish delight as he stood over her, staring down. He ran a slender finger down her face from temple to jaw line, tracing the contours of her skin, almost gently until the end, when he twisted and dug his nail into her, cutting deep. She didn't flinch, made no sound; she had been expecting it. She forced a mocking smile. Then he tilted her chin up, another disturbingly tender gesture, and stared into her eyes, sleek amusement playing about his emaciated features._

_            "My sweet little mageling," he whispered, hefting the metal crown and fitting it to her head, "with this slave crown I'll practically own you…" He trailed off in a high, lunatic giggle, flames of madness dancing behind the darkness of his smile._

_No._

_            No, don't._

_            Please, no. Please, no._

_            Please don't._

_She did scream, in the end, in the darkness of her own mind, as she felt her thoughts ripped away and scattered like ashes on the wind. She remembered that, and hated it; she had screamed and not stopped screaming until the cold clamped down like a vice, stilling her mad struggles for freedom. She had screamed._

_No more. _

_Please._

_This isn't happening._

_It isn't._

_Just let me wake._

_This is a dream._

_Please let me wake._


	5. Ice

Chapter 4: Ice

_Am I a toy on a tray?_

_A soft piece of clay_

_Queen or clown for the day_

_Machine ballerina_

_Soldier of tin_

_Standing so loyal_

_While you sit so royal_

_Then I'm put away?_

_Suzanne Vega, Machine Ballerina_

            The General stood silently with her head bowed, poised lightly on the balls of her feet, a thin, glinting blade held easily in her hands. The weapon was ancient, but well cared for and razor sharp. Jagged runes were carved into the darkly gleaming blade – letters in an alphabet that had been forgotten before the General was born, but there were times when they caught the light from the corner of her eye, and she thought in those times that she could almost read the meaning behind the alien shapes. The sense knowledge would dance in the back of her mind and slip away when she attempted to look closer, but that didn't stop it from returning at odd and inopportune moments, like ghostly fingers or the dreams and whispers that had plagued her when she was a child. Now, though, she held the old blade up to catch the sun, standing like a rock in the silence of the morning, and nothing could shake the inner fortress walls of her calm. _Cold.__ That's what they call me…_ Ice Maiden, Ice Queen, and a few less respectful variations on the same theme that they didn't know she was aware of. _And they're right. I_ am _ice._

            A dry wind ruffled through her long hair, carrying the scents of smoke and metal. Such smells were impossible to escape in Vector, but wind was a rarity, and though she was fixed in the frigid serenity of her own mental focus, the General was still unable to stop herself from tilting her face up to meet the fierce breeze, nor to repress the quiet sense of pleasure that it brought as her hair was lifted and flung out behind her like a banner. She was standing in an empty practice field in the Imperial barracks – the dry dirt floor tended to empty fairly quickly when it was time for the General's morning practice sessions, though she could sense the watchers peering safely down from behind closed windows. The yard was overlooked by the towering bulk of the Imperial Palace and the less gigantic but similarly oppressive shapes of the Magitek facility and surrounding labs; Everywhere in Vector stood in the Empire's shadow, but this place, perhaps, most of all. The open square was dotted with targets and practice dummies, but the General had little use for such things; real enemies didn't stand still or silent as they waited for you to steady your aim or to force rebellious thoughts into order. Real enemies didn't bleed straw.

            The General raised her sword in a mocking salute to the invisible enemies, and to the dark eyes she knew to be staring down from the heights of the palace. His Majesty. The Emperor, he whom she had been raised – created – to serve. A bitter smile quirked on her thin lips, then disappeared back into the stony coldness of the façade she affected. They had forged her into a weapon; she had endured the forge-fire, she had survived and hung on to some thin thread of sanity when too many others had snapped, and she had gone on to fulfill her purpose coldly and willingly. _But no more.__ I can't do it anymore._ No, that wasn't true. _I can. But I won't._ Would she? She had come close to treachery before, closer than anyone ever knew, and in the end she had always backed down, gone on being a weapon.

            And yet… _Maranda__.__ I can't forget Maranda._ And that was true; she couldn't. She had tried. Something had happened that day, in the middle of that brutal _massacre_ battle. It was as though the blood that stained her hands that day had also washed the veil from her eyes, finally and truly, allowing her to _see_. She thought of His Majesty's face now, saw it clearly, free for the first time in her life from the blindfold of conditioning. She saw the greed there, the subtle cruelty, and a shiver of hate ran up her spine. The General's anger may have been cold, but it was no less deadly for all that.

            And then something inside her snapped, and she whirled suddenly, striking at the air like a snake, moving with the speed of lighting and rage. She brought the blade up in a smooth graceful arc, then shifted to a twisting stab, piercing the throat of some imaginary enemy. She spun and slashed, the only sound the whistle of her sword slicing through the brittle morning air. _Faster._ She threw herself into the dance, seeking that perfect, mindless calm that came to her sometimes in battle, that absolute freedom from past and future, from conscience. _Faster._ It wasn't rage that swept along her veins, because rage was supposed to be hot, passionate, balancing on that very thin wire between love and hate; it was… clarity. Excess thoughts fell away, sounds were muted, until it was only herself and the flickering blade, caught up in the storm of a deadly dance. _Faster._

            She sensed him behind her, though his feet made little noise in the soft dirt of the courtyard, and she spun effortlessly, bringing the blade to rest a mere fraction of a centimeter from his unprotected neck. And then she returned to the present, and she saw the man's face. _Gods…_ It was Cid. She had thought… she had thought it was His Majesty, and she had almost – almost – end the whole thing right then by killing the evil old bastard right there in the practice yard. But it hadn't been him. _That would have been a fine end to your career as a murderer,_ she thought, suppressing a shudder, _killing the only one who ever… the only one who…_

            "Professor Cid," she said, hearing and hating the coldness in her own voice, "you should know not to interrupt me during practice." _That could be as fatal a mistake as interrupting me in battle. For you, it almost was._ She lowered her sword and looked into the eyes of the man before her, feeling sick with hatred and self-disgust. But the hatred wasn't for him, oh no. For this man she felt only a kind of bitter love, a remnant of the days when death had been merely a distant shadow, only touching her in dreams. She could remember his face from before she had had to go away, before the conditioning had begun, so long before she had ever held a weapon or ordered a death. She had never thought, back before those evil days had come, that she would ever miss the lab and all its silently crying ghosts. But she had known from the beginning that she would miss this man.

            He looked older now, and sadder, more tired – no, not mere tiredness, the man was bone weary – but he wore the same frayed yellow coat and spectacles, and his face held the same trapped, almost pitying kindness that she had never, as a child, understood. The General turned away. She had not cried in years, not since her first taste of battle. She was not going to start again now.

            "Celes," his voice was kind, but… distant? Tinged with fear? "Celes, I'm… I'm worried about you." _No, you're terrified of me, and you feel guilty about it. Well, don't. And please don't call me Celes. I'm the General now, I'm the Ice Queen, weapons don't need to be named._ She almost said all this, but the words which wanted to pour out of her in a waterfall were caught in her throat, blocked by three years worth of unshed tears.

            After a moment of uneasy silence, she simply responded, "Don't be. I'm fine."

            He shook his head, and she almost thought for a moment he was going to put a hand on her shoulder, but he thought the better of it, and his hands hung lankly and awkwardly by his sides.

            "No. You're not. You've been having dreams again." There was the barest hint of a question to that last, as though he was almost, but not quite, willing to stake his life on the truth of it. _And you don't know how close you came to doing just that…_

            "Lets talk someplace else," she said flatly, and he nodded, eyes flickering up to the palace. His Imperial Majesty had bugs and wiretaps everywhere in Vector, of course; there was no true privacy to be found. But at least she wouldn't have to feel the man's eyes on her as she spoke. She didn't feel like discussing her dreams under that cruel, watchful gaze.

            "The lab?" He asked, and it was her turn to nod silently. Going back there would be painful and strange, but it was something she would have to face eventually.

            "I'd like to monitor your dreams," the scientist said as they walked, across the dusty practice yard and into a steel-girded back door to the Facility. "Not as an experiment, you understand. Simply to see if there's anything to be done…" he trailed off nervously, and Celes – it was hard to keep up the General's emotionless mask now, in the presence of the only true father she had known – felt a sharp stab of pity for the man. Of course it was an experiment, ordered by the Emperor, no doubt, but she saw no reason not to go along with it. Perhaps he really might find the cause, and some way to cure it. More likely she was suffering from the same… mental degeneration… as Kefka, simply not as far gone. Still, it didn't matter.

            "You've been experimenting on me since I was a child, Cid. No reason to start feeling guilty now." _No, that was wrong, that was cruel. You don't have to hurt this man. You don't._

            "Celes, I'm – "

            "No, Cid. No. Don't be sorry. Please." _That was hardly better. Do you enjoy sounding like a weak little child?_

            They walked the rest of the way in silence, sweltering under the oppressive atmosphere of Vector as the sun rose toward its baleful zenith. The air-conditioned halls of the laboratory were blessed relief, though the memories those silent, sterile halls evoked in Celes were less than pleasant. _They're still here. They're still crying. I can still hear them._ She forced down a cry of dismay, stilling her emotions with ruthless efficiency as she pushed the voices out of her mind. _And I'm still as loopy as Kefka. Does that mad bastard hear voices too, I wonder? Perhaps screams are the only way for him to drown them._

            Celes didn't recognize the door in front of which Cid stopped, or the room which lay behind. In truth, she doubted she had seen even half of the vast facility, and somehow, she found herself very glad of that fact indeed. She had little doubt that things happened here which would make even someone who had done the things she had sick to their stomach. She wondered sometimes how Cid, who had less cruelty to him than she did, could stand the knowledge. _Well, that's easy. He blocks it off. Just like you do, Celes, Ice Maiden, General. Just like you do._ She scowled at the spotless walls, stilling her thoughts again with practiced ease. Instead of thinking, she examined the small room, observing every detail with a soldier's eye.

            The room looked like a doctor's examination room in some ways, with a wax-paper covered examination table, a solitary chair, and a small, paper-strewn desk pushed up against one white wall. It had the same sense of clean sterility, the same smell of rubbing alcohol and the same harsh fluorescent light. But the far wall was covered with computers and stranger machines, monitors and switches and dials, and at the head of the examination table was an array of wires and electrodes, made to fit onto a human skull. _It looks like one of those damnable slave crowns,_ she thought suddenly, _without Kefka's pretty decorations, that is. Did Cid bring me here to brainwash me?_

_            No. Never him. Never that._ She could not quite manage to dispel her suspicion, but there was a quiet traitorous voice inside her that whispered that if they did brainwash her, it would be better. Easier. She could forget all she had done, sink into the perfect, guiltless limbo that mindlessness offered… _No. Cid won't brainwash me, and I_ don't _want to be brainwashed. I don't._ Nevertheless, when he bade her lay down on the table, and when he fit the crown to the contours of her skull, she didn't struggle or protest, or even ask. _If Cid betrays me, I don't want to be able to think. Its as simple as that. If Cid betrays me, I don't care anymore._

            The scientist flipped several switches on the far wall, and she heard the machinery hum to life around her. He turned and took her hand in his, a gentle smile on his tired face. She could feel herself growing weaker, calmer, sinking into the arms of sleep.

            "You're going to dream, Celes. Just like you always do… no, probably stronger. That's what this machine does, amplifies the waves… it won't be any more pleasant for you than your other dreams, but this time we have a chance of understanding…" he trailed off, or perhaps she simply couldn't hear him any longer, because now the room was blurring and going dim. She could feel her mind slipping away from her body, her connections to reality, to the here-and-now loosening and giving way. But she was _aware._ She had never experienced such a sensation before, not even as a girl, when her barriers hadn't been nearly so strong. _I'm dreaming, but I'm not… _The small examination room had vanished completely, and now she was floating bodiless in a sea of gray mist. _This isn't like my other dreams at all… where are the ghosts? Where is the fear, the rage? Why am I still myself? _

            But there was no time to ask herself such questions, no time to orient herself to this strange new reality, because somewhere, off in the sea of mist and swirling shadow, she could hear someone crying out in pain and trapped terror. And she thought she recognized that voice.

A/N: Please tell me if I ended up making Celes into some kind of whiny weakling, because I don't _think _I did, but I hate when people do so I want to make sure.


	6. Dream and Memory

A/N: Thanks to everyone for all the encouraging reviews.

Rocket and Lady Aegis: thanks for pointing out the gigantic mutant paragraphs that ate Chicago… looking back, I realized that those two chapters _were_ difficult to read, not just because of the monster paragraphs, but because of an embarrassing amount of typos and just plain awkward sentences. My excuse: that week I was very stressed about school and other things, so that stuff slipped through my revisions… I'll fix it when I've got time. I'm glad you guys mentioned that, and I'll try to watch for it in the future.

BTW, there's a lot of "she" and "her"s in this chapter. I tried to avoid pronoun confusion, but if there is any, please let me know so I can fix it. Thanks.

Chapter 5: Dream and Memory

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When the flood calls,   
You have no home, you have no walls  
In the thunder crash  
You're a thousand minds, within a flash  
Don't be afraid to cry at what you see  
The act is gone, there's only you and me  
And if we break before the dawn, they'll use up what we used to be

Peter Gabriel, Early Warnings

"Do you know her name, kupo?" the moogle shaman asked softly. His voice was quiet and solemn – the tone, Locke could not help thinking, that one might use on someone's deathbed.

"I'm afraid not. I just thought of her as the Sorceress." Locke said, unconsciously mirroring the elderly moogle's tone. The shaman nodded, apparently unsurprised, perhaps even approving. He had given his own name as Kumo, and the young apprentice, hovering on the edge of the cavern and watching over his teacher's myriad herbs, potions and amulets – none of which seemed to be of any use in this case – was Mog. The young moogle was quick and sharp, and kept darting curious glances at Locke, who was quite possibly the first human the boy had ever seen. The shaman seemed to take Locke's presence in stride, not wasting time with questions about what a human thief was doing in a moogle city. Locke wasn't particularly surprised by that fact; it was Kumo's reaction to the girl that he found strange, and a little troubling, though in reflection, not altogether unjustified…

Locke remembered how the moogle had hurried into the cave room, all business, prepared to heal the human girl and be on to more important tasks. Kumo had knelt by the girl's side and placed his hand on her forehead, but at the moment the moogle's hand had touched her skin he had practically jumped backwards, drawing in a sharp breath. The shaman had gathered his composure and reached down again, more gently this time, more tentatively, to brush a lock of green hair away from her closed eyes. His own dark, shrewd eyes were wide and fixed on the her still dreaming face, and his own furry face was painted with a strange mixture of awe and trepidation, an expression that looked almost like… Locke found it hard to believe, but almost like reverence. Locke was unused to the idea of moogles being frightened by much of anything, much less touched by awe. In his experience, the best even the most powerful or dangerous human could expect from any moogle seemed to be what he himself had won: grudging respect. But then, that was the thing, wasn't it… _any human_. This Sorceress might be _anything_. Locke felt a sharp, bitter laugh rise in his throat, and managed with effort to still it; now was not the time for hysteria, nor was it yet the time for despair. The shaman hadn't given up on the girl yet, and Locke saw no reason why he should either.

"A pity, kupo… there might have been some help there."

Locke shook his head in disbelief. Magic, he could accept, but…

"You mean to tell me," he said, trying to keep the skepticism from his voice, "that the old superstition is true? Names have power?"

The old moogle chuckled wryly, though Locke could see nothing in the least amusing about the situation. "Perhaps not in the way you imagine," he said softly, "but power, yes, of a sort. You hear your name spoken across a crowded room, kupo… do you not? There is power there. Only in the mind, perhaps, but that's where she is now, a prisoner in her own mind. A name might show her the key… ah, well, no matter. There are other ways." Locke hoped so. According to the shaman, there was _nothing_ wrong with the girl in any physical sense – even the fever that had so worried him was nothing, according to Kumo, though he wasn't sure how convinced of that he was. _Gods, kid, I hope you're all right._

Still kneeling beside the sleeping girl, Kumo waved at Locke and Mog to clear out of the way, then reached out once more to touch her forehead, closing his eyes in silent meditation. Locke wasn't at all sure what the moogle was planning, but he had a feeling it was both big and a last resort, that after this old Kumo didn't have anything else to try. _And then, she either wakes up on her own, or she dies like this. Damn, damn, damn!_

Celes's attention was drawn almost helplessly to the cry she heard echoing out over the gray wasteland of dream, piercing through the shimmering and featureless sea of fog in which she drifted. The voice was thin and tenuous, as though she was hearing it from across a great distance… but she had a feeling that distances in this dream-world had nothing to do with physical space or measurement. All distances here would be in the mind, all rules would be dream rules. Over the years, Celes had come to understand that such things had an odd and twisted logic of their own. She had always suspected that her dreams were more than simply fragmented pieces of her own dark subconscious, and that suspicion seemed all the more true in this case. She felt as though she was a part of this dream, not the other way around, and whoever it was that she could sense out there, lost in the shifting mists, must be a part of the dream as well.

__

Who is she? Celes thought that she should know, but whenever she tried to focus on that distant, alien consciousness, her thoughts slipped away from her. It was like trying to catch a shadow or a mirage in the corner of her eye – as soon as she looked directly at it, it vanished, only to appear again in the corner of her vision just as she looked away. Only it wasn't vision, but thought, awareness…

The voice hung on the edge of her consciousness, rising and falling like the crash of waves or the pounding of blood in her ears. She almost thought she could hear words, but she had neither the desire nor the ability to hear more clearly. The voice was chilling in its familiarity, and, though the battle-hardened general didn't like to admit it to herself, the raw, animal pain she heard there pierced her to the bone. A small, shameful part of her shrank away from that pain, telling her to get away, as far from the source of it as possible. Part of her wanted to ignore it, to wake up and try to forget… but if there was one thing she had learned from years of bad dreams, it was that running got you nowhere. Besides…

__

I have been a coward before, though I called it obedience and the papers called it heroism. I will not be a coward now. She did not run, or even shy away. She turned toward the voice, and to the tiny, flickering beacon of a lost soul that she could somehow sense, far off on the edge of her mind. She reached out…

…and was shoved away with desperate violence, agony lancing through her. It felt like her mind was being slammed by a tidal wave, drowning her and crushing her at the same time. She fought to get back, to keep from being torn away, scattered against rushing torrents of fire and darkness... there was a sickening certainty in her mind that if she failed to keep her footing here, there would be no waking. She could see in her mind's eye the image of a pale, empty shell which had once served as her body, lying prone on an examination table in Cid's lab, living but soulless… _no. Not today, I'm afraid. The General is harder to kill than that._ Fighting the other's power was ripping her apart… so she stopped. Instead of resisting, and being drowned, she let the currents wash over her, and simply concentrated on staying afloat. Soon enough, the storm faded around her, leaving her shaken and exhausted in the gray sea whose emptiness she was growing to hate. Everything was as it had been before, but for one thing – Celes now knew who it was that had almost killed her.

She had been sent reeling by the jarring force of the other's mental assault, but not before getting one clear glimpse through the barred window that was her mind. Celes had seen with harsh clarity the thin, battered frame of a young woman chained to a corroded steel throne, green hair spilling across sharp, bare shoulders, a bright trickle of blood running down one cheek. It was the eyes that Celes remembered most of all, fierce and golden, burning with hatred and half-mad with terror, holding a deeper, darker fire than even the General had ever seen. It seemed as though those eyes were boring into her still, piercing… judging…

She had recognized the room the girl was in. It was a sort of anti-magic chamber, created to hold the Empire's most powerful and dangerous prisoners. She didn't truly understand how the magic dampers worked – she doubted anyone but Cid himself did, and he was the one who had invented the things – but she knew their effects well enough. She herself had enjoyed the charms of that small cell on more than one occasion, during a particularly rebellious phase of her youth, and the bare metal walls and chains, even the dirty light that streamed in from one high, narrow window, were unpleasantly familiar. She had never expected to see the inside of that room again, even in some strange dream-echo of the real world, and she didn't like it. She didn't like being reminded that places like that existed in the Empire that she had helped to build. _And that too is cowardice. If you aren't capable of facing the ugliness of what you've done, you have no right to call yourself a knight. If you can't see clearly, if you _won't_ see clearly… then how can you ever hope to redeem yourself?_

She recognized the girl, as well – though if not for the distinctive, disturbingly inhuman hair and eyes, she wasn't at all sure she would have. There was little enough other resemblance between the silent, ghostly waif who had haunted the corridors of Cid's lab and the fierce, burning spirit who stared out from behind those heavy chains… _Terra. You've changed… as much as I have, I suppose._ Celes could remember a time when the other girl's golden eyes had seemed to big for her face, painted in deep shadow, looking out at the world across a gulf that Celes had never been able to bridge. They had never been close, exactly; the green-haired child had kept herself hidden away behind walls of silence and deep mistrust, impossible to reach through. There had been times when Celes had imagined the other girl had more in common with the ghosts which haunted the edges of her thought than she did with the other humans of the labs. Terra had never had more than one foot in this world; it seemed as though she saw and heard things that Celes didn't understand, suffered in ways that Celes never knew, and her presence had always been as precarious and delicate as a candle-flame, burning brightly but easily extinguished. It was not so now; time and anger had fanned the flames, or perhaps the ghost-child had finally come into her own, magic-wise.

__

Is she there right now? In Vector? Celes wasn't certain what she thought of that prospect. If she was, then the General's first and final act of treachery could involve freeing the Empire's living weapon from those magic dampers, and that would be a wonderfully fitting vengeance for both of them. And it would be justice, it would be _right,_ but… Cid. There was the issue of Cid. What Terra would do about the scientist, when and if she got free, was anyone's guess. The girl was not bloodthirsty, but Celes knew danger when she saw it, and there were times when Terra was practically the living incarnation of peril, whether the girl knew it or not. And her attitude toward Cid was a wild card, a factor that Celes didn't understand nearly well enough to predict. _I don't think she would kill him. I don't _think_ she would. But I don't know…_

Cid had always made slightly feeble efforts to be kind to Terra, but nonetheless, the child's hatred of the scientist ran deep and savage. Once, Celes had seen her bite him, though she had been young at the time, and that action had been prompted more by frightened reflex than anything else – he had been trying to give her an injection, at the time. Usually, the girl had simply sat silent and glaring, refusing to speak or move, eyes burning with trapped rage as Cid and his fellow scientists performed their seemingly endless tests. Once – and Celes remembered this most clearly of all – she had spoken.

_"Why do you do it?"_ the girl had asked, her voice the carefully emotionless echo of someone who wants to believe herself too strong to cry, _"Can't you see you're hurting them? Why are you doing this?"_ Celes had been five years old then, and eavesdropping, and she hadn't been sure at the time who "they" were. Later, with the innocent imprudence of a child, she had asked. Terra had been silent for a long time, before smiling a mad, beatific smile and whispering "My people…" At age five, Celes had been convinced the girl meant Celes's ghosts, the ones no one else seemed to see or hear. As time passed she had convinced herself that ghosts didn't exist – a major contribution to her certainty on the matter had been General Kefka's slow descent into raving madness, which had frightened young Celes to the very core of her soul, for uncomfortably obvious reasons. Now, at age eighteen, she wasn't so certain. _My people. Goddesses, what does _that _mean?_

No, that's not important right now. Is she in Vector? Somehow, that idea didn't seem quite right. _I heard they sent her off to take some city up north… under the control of a slave crown, no doubt, she's too unpredictable for them to let her out of their sight otherwise… Not Figaro, because they're going to coordinate that attack with Doma… _But if she was heading northward to battle… _then what was she doing in that cell?_ The General scowled suddenly, cursing her own stupidity. _Because it's a dream, of course. _Terra wasn't necessarily in Vector any more than Celes was literally, bodily here in this damnable dreamland.__

Maybe that's what happens to you, when you wear a slave crown. Maybe your mind gets trapped here, leaving your body empty… From what Celes had seen, Terra wasn't having a particularly pleasant time of it, either, and somehow, Celes didn't think she had seen the worst. The General might not have understood or been close to the ethereal child she remembered, and she might have been slightly frightened by what that child had grown into, but… evil was evil. Celes couldn't leave her to the mercy of this place and her own memories. To do so would be a betrayal of something important… the cold and ruthless General's last shred of innocence, perhaps, or the integrity that she had never truly managed to leave behind.

__

What of Cid? I can't take the chance that – no. That wasn't a problem. Even if the prospect of Cid's murder was of utmost importance in the girl's mind, which Celes doubted… _If_ she was in Vector, that meant she was in the anti-magic cell, and would be staying there for a bit longer whether she woke up or not. If she wasn't, all the better. Either way, there would be plenty of time to get the scientist to safety. As for the rest of the Empire… Celes might not have known Terra well, but well enough to know that even now she wasn't one to harm innocents or to kill for pleasure. The only people who needed to fear the witch-girl's vengeance were those who deserved it. _Cid…_ Cid wasn't exactly undeserving of vengeance either. Celes hated to admit it, but her time as a soldier and, later, a commander of soldiers, had torn the veil from her eyes, and she was no longer capable of pretending not to know. Cid was a good man, but he had done evil things… under duress, perhaps – she honestly didn't know – but gods knew that even a good excuse could only get you so far. Of course, she didn't intend to let Terra or anyone else harm him, but allow her the luxury of whitewashing the past or, for that matter, the present. _This is not the time for reflection. I don't know how fast or slow time flows here, but I've wasted quite enough of it either way. I have to find a way to get to Terra._

But how? The last time Celes had reached out to the girl, it had nearly killed her, and she saw no reason to believe it would be different a second time. _Did I give her some reason to fear me? Did I act with too much force? _She didn't think so. It seemed more as though lashing out was the only way the girl knew to react at the moment. She was even more of a trained weapon than Celes herself, and under that kind of tension, the oldest instincts tend to take over. _Can I do this differently, somehow?_ Celes thought that if she could just get past Terra's defenses, she would be in a position to help the girl without getting torn apart herself. _She trusted me. I remember that. Maybe even loved me, inasmuch as she was capable of loving anyone. If I could get her to know who I was…_

Celes's attention was yanked rudely back to the present; if she had had a body she might have jumped, or at the very least looked up sharply. As it was, she drew in on herself, peering out from behind the familiar, reflexive mental barriers that she erected in the instant she sensed a… wrongness in the air. A change. Something was happening… The mist was gathering and swirling around the tiny pinpoint of light that Celes now knew to be Terra's dreams, and the very air seemed to be changing texture, growing heavier, like the air before a storm. It seemed almost as though Terra's soul, if soul it was, had become a new center of gravity, and everything in the vast gray sea – including Celes herself – was slowly being drawn inward toward it. Lightning seemed to flicker in the billowing mists, now thunderstorm dark. The air tasted of magic, cool and slightly metallic… Celes had, as a child, been surprised to learn other people didn't seem to be able to taste or smell or even feel magic, even when, as now, it had the force and presence of a gathering tornado. _This is my chance. I don't know what's happening, whether it's good or bad, but it's a definite distraction. I might be able to get through._ She mentally tensed for action, relying on her soldier's reflexes to tell her the right moment to move. _This is my chance. I might not get another one._

The shaman closed his eyes and began a low, droning chant, words that Locke didn't know, and which didn't sound even vaguely like any moogle language he had heard. And then the elderly moogle got to his feet and literally begun to dance, slowly at first, but gathering speed with the ponderous momentum of an avalanche. Soon, the old shaman was moving like a dervish, while Locke and Mog watched in silent fascination. The thief wasn't sure how much of it was true magic and how much mere ceremony, but it seemed as though he could feel a power gathering in the room, centered on the shaman or perhaps the Sorceress herself. It felt a bit – no, Locke amended, very much – like the air before a lightning strike. As the dance continued, he could feel his skin tingling with energy, his hair lifting around his head in a golden halo, drifting in the crackle of electricity… the atmosphere itself seemed ripe with potential, pregnant with power.

Locke could remember sneaking out as a child, during the summer storms which wracked Kohlingen, standing amid the rain and wind, watching the thunder flicker and dance in the distance. It had been a dangerous thing to do, stupid, but there was an exhilaration to it as well, a sense of being caught up and swirled around in a terrible and beautiful power. Once, he had brought Rachel with him, and the two of them had stood together in the storm, laughing and getting soaked while the wind whipped around them and blowing leaves tangled in their hair… _I caught hell from her parents for that, I can remember, but we both agreed it was worth it._ Neither of them had understood the danger back then – had known, of course, but hadn't truly understood. Now, standing in the rushing winds of a different, but no less wild, kind of storm, he thought he saw for the first time all that he had been risking. There were winds that could sweep a man from his feet and carry him tumbling along in their wake, powers that could pick him up and break him and continue in their course without so much as registering a human presence.

__

But maybe we were right, back then…

Maybe it's worth it…

The shaman stopped his dervish dance, as suddenly and smoothly as a bird turning in flight, and with no less weightless grace. Locke had been amazed that the elderly creature could dance like that, when ordinarily he moved with the same cautious care as any human his age… part of the magic, the thief supposed. Kumo had ended up on one knee, one hand resting lightly on the cave floor, furry head bowed. He rose slowly and stepped across the room to where the girl lay, that feeling of electricity streaming out around and behind him like a cloak in a high wind. He knelt again by her side, reached out to touch the hand holding the crimson jewel, which now seemed to be glowing with its own pulsing light – and pulled back sharply as lightning, no longer invisible, flared between and around the two figures in blinding blue-white flashes. Electricity crackled and flashed, filling the small cave with almost tangible energy and with the sharp smell of ozone. Locke heard Mog gasp, and he clambered over to where the moogle boy was pressed against the stone wall as lightning danced and flickered around them. He grabbed the boy's hand and held it tightly, offering any comfort he could, while the storm raged around them.

Mog clutched at Locke's jacket, and his voice sounded like a whisper above the sharp crackle of lightning when he looked upward at Locke and muttered "I've never seen _anything_ like this before, kupo… _Never…_" The moogle boy – _he can't possibly be older than fourteen_, thought Locke with strange and irrelevant clarity – was wide-eyed, and all his fur was standing on end from the static in the air. It was a sight that might have been comical, but for the sheer, oppressive force of the magic in the air, and the almost-hidden terror in Mog's face. _He thinks he's to old to be scared of anything, boys that age always do, but this is the sort of thing could give any kid nightmares…_

The shaman himself was facing the girl, standing straight as a rod with his arms lifted and his head thrown back, still as a rock in the middle of the rushing currents of power. As the thief watched, wonderment and panic warring for control of his mind, Kumo gathered the lightning around him like a cloak, drawing it close and seeming to channel it through his small, frail body. Then he flung his arms down in an abrupt gesture, leaving shimmering trails in the ozone-scented air. The lightning followed the path of his hands, sparking downward to the stone floor, forming a scintillating pool of light around his feet before finally dissipating in white ripples acrossthe cavern floor. Tension drained from the air as the storm of magic finally faded and died, leaving Locke and Mog stunned and half-blinded, clutching each other like frightened children. The thief had endured the thunder of battle, had even faced magic before, fire and lightning flung from the hands of those supposedly half-mad Magitech Knights… but he had never experienced anything so… immediate. It was as though he had been in the eye of a hurricane, or perhaps the dead center of a tornado, standing in a circle of calm as wind and lightning raged about him. He had a definite suspicion that he was, once again, very lucky to be alive…

__

When he had recovered enough to look up, he saw the shaman collapsed on his hands and knees, breathing hard. The moogle appeared to be unhurt, but deeply shaken, and small wonder. Locke wasn't certain what Kumo had been expecting to happen, but he highly doubted that it in any way resembled what actually did. The thief brushed dirt off his coat in a habitual motion as he managed to get to his feet and headed over to the place the shaman had fallen. He gently helped the old moogle to his feet, remembering too late that such an action might be taken as a gesture of disrespect – moogles deeply hated being perceived as fragile or weak by humans, and for good reason – but it seemed to make no difference in this case. No one in the room was composed enough to care about respect or the lack of it, not at the moment.

"That was…" the shaman gasped roughly, sounding to Locke's ears suddenly very old and tired, "that was not… supposed to happen, kupo. Some kind of… reaction… resonance…"

__

"Are you all right?"

__

"Me? Of course I am, but her, this Sorceress of yours… I don't know, kupo. I don't know. I tried to reach her… foolish, foolish, she pushed me away, of course. Violently. Such power…" The moogle sighed, weariness permeating his voice. "She didn't trust me. Thought I was trying to hurt her… I don't know what to do, kupo. Trying again might kill us all…"

A/N: Next chapter, Terra finally wakes up, with Celes's help, and we can finally get on with things! Yay! I wanted to have that happen this chapter, but I've been way busy lately and didn't have much time to write – I'm not one of those people who can just sit down at the computer and slam out an update, for me it takes a lot of time and effort to write anything worth reading. I messed around with Mog's character a bit in this chapter by making him a shaman's apprentice – my take on where he learned that magic dancy stuff – but even in the game he really is 14 years old.

NOTE: Due to computer trouble at my mom's house, updates during the summer might be sporadic at best. I've been updating from either school or my dad's for the past few times, and I'm not going to be either of those places over the summer. So, in other words, if this isn't updated over the summer, its because of no internet access, not because I gave up. I will try to post when I can, but no guarantees. Sorry for the inconvenience.


	7. On the Road Again

OK, here's the thing. I know this has been boring lately, and I'm sorry. I wasn't spending so much time on this whole thing because I thought it was interesting, its just that… well, I tried to do something, and ended up writing myself into a pit, and all my efforts to get out only got me in deeper. One of the perils of posting as you write, I guess. So, I decided that this just wasn't working, and I needed to rewrite this chapter and make an effort to leave the whole mess behind with the smallest amount of embarrassment possible. If you happened to read chapter 7 while it was still Celes in the world of dreams, just forget that, because it officially never happened. And, yeah, I know the first half of this chapter (at least) really stinks. This will get better again shortly, I promise, I've just hit a sort of rough spot that I need to get past.

I hope this isn't still too slow. I'm trying, it's just that I tend to get caught up in the details.

Chapter 7: On the Road Again

ooo

You said to me,

"I cannot make you happy,

Like a wounded bird,

You must find the strength to fly"

And time can paint the treetops

With colors of the rainbow

But you cannot find the end,

No matter how you try

Kate Wolf, Unfinished Life

ooo

Terra could not be certain how long she lingered in the fever-clouded grip of dark dreams and darker memories before at last her isolation was broken by a stranger's touch. Before she could muster her defenses or lash out, the other was beside her, soft as a shadow and gentle as a spring rain. The stranger was a pillar of strength, a guide through the dark, a guardian spirit with the keys to every door… a cool, invisible presence leading her through the maze of her spinning thoughts, free of the cage of fear, and back at last to the realms of daylight…

The transition from dream to waking was gradual, like the blending of shades in a watercolor painting, one state fading gently into another. It was the voices she became aware of first, hushed and urgent, hovering on the barest edge of perception.

_"She's definitely waking up, kupo…"_ This first voice was high and thin, an elderly voice, with the certainty that goes with command.

"Think she'll be all right?" said another, a younger male voice with a ragged note of exhaustion. It was a voice that seemed almost familiar, for some reason, and one she found it hard not to trust.

"At the moment, I'm more worried about us. Stay back, kupo, you don't want to scare her…"

The voices were distant and muted, as though she was hearing them from beneath a vast expanse of water… and then she was swimming upward, through the oceanic darkness, to reach the source of light and sound, until at last she broke the surface of consciousness. She sat up and opened her eyes in one smooth movement, one hand grasping reflexively for the sword that should have been at her side even as she took in the details of the scene before her.

She was in a cave, but a comfortable one, strewn with sleeping mats and bright cushions, well lit by floating globes that burned with the distinct glow of magic. Three other figures were in the room, sitting a few feet away and watching her anxiously. The first was a small, white-furred creature, festooned with beads and feathers and clutching a gnarled wooden staff twice his own height. The creature was in many ways a strange mixture of cute and ridiculous, but he held himself with a sort of calm dignity, and Terra found herself inclined to take him seriously.

Beside him was a thin, wiry human youth, watching her with owlish eyes. She guessed this man to be the owner of the tired voice; he certainly looked as though he could do with a few hours rest and a good meal. His face was pale and drawn, with dark circles beneath his blue eyes, and his clothes were travel-worn, torn and dusty. He was dressed for the road, in a frayed jacket, sturdy trousers and boots, with a bandanna to hold back his dust-colored hair and twin daggers stuck through a belt at his waist. When he saw her examining him, he offered up a tired, worried smile, but said nothing.

The third and final occupant of the cave looked to be a member of the same species as the first, but much younger and obviously trying to hide both fear and fascination. He hung around the edges of the small group, peering at her from what he seemed to think was a safe distance, his dark eyes completely inscrutable.

"Who are you," Terra asked quietly, "and how did I get here?" The last thing she could remember clearly was falling, the rush of wind in her ears and darkness surrounding her. There were vague impressions of nightmares and dim memories, but nothing solid, nothing she could make sense of.

The tired man was the first to answer. "I'm Locke Cole. Arvis sent me to help you… you know, the old guy?"

Terra nodded. Arvis was a name she recognized, a name she could trust… an old man in a snowy village, fighting off soldiers for her sake… a good man. Had he promised to send help? It didn't matter, really. She was lost and, apparently, hunted in a world she knew nothing of. She would have to trust someone eventually.

"These are Kumo and Mog," he continued, gesturing at his two companions. "They tried to heal you, and, I guess, succeeded."

"Heal me?"

"You were in a pretty bad state when I found you… unconscious and feverish. Look, how much do you remember?"

Terra sighed. "I remember waking up in Arvis's house, and fleeing from the soldiers. There was a cave-in, and I fell. But..." _I have to tell him. He'll find out eventually anyway. I have to trust someone, why not him?_ "But before all that... I don't remember anything, past or present. All I know is my name."

Locke frowned, running a gloved hand through his raggedly cut hair. "You have amnesia?" He didn't sound surprised, just resigned.

She nodded again, slowly. The young treasure hunter tried another reassuring smile, then looked down as she met his eyes and didn't smile back. He appeared to be trying not to inch backward, though Terra had to admit he was holding his ground admirably. _I seem to have... quite an effect on people_, she thought with bitter amusement. Arvis had been frightened too; they both hid it well, the old man with gruffness and Locke with rather desperate attempts at kindness, but neither hid it completely. _What am I, that I should frighten people like this?_

"Arvis said that my memory would return, in time." She said quietly, not because she thought he needed to know, but simply because the silence was suddenly too complete, too oppressive. She was sick of being feared; she knew she was dangerous, knew exactly what she was capable of doing, but… She liked this Locke Cole. It was difficult not to. And she wanted him to see her as a person, not a… not a killer. _Even if that's what I am._

"Yeah." Another weary, nervous smile on his part. This time she tried to smile back. "You just have to give it time. And until then, I…" his voice was suddenly very serious, almost solemn, "I'll stay with you. I promise. You'll be safe with me."

Part of her was almost angry at the idea that he thought _he_ would keep _her _safe. She was hardly defenseless, certainly not some weakling to be rescued; trusting her fate to another seemed too much like surrendering her freedom, and at the moment freedom was really all she had. _I don't need your protection,_ she wanted to tell him, _and I don't want your pity. Or your fear._ And yet…

She smiled as gently as she could. "Thanks."

ooo

They spent the night in that cave, as Locke was in desperate need of sleep. Terra, not tired at all, spent her time thinking and speaking quietly to the moogles, as she learned they were called. Most of them seemed to view her with a sort of silent awe, though none seemed willing to say why. Still, the creatures were more than willing to speak of moogle history and the nature of the caverns themselves, which were evidently far older than both the mines of Narshe and the moogles themselves. She also learned that "treasure hunter" was a euphemism for thief, and that it would not be a good idea to let on to Locke that she knew it. Fascinating subjects, but not, at the moment, particularly useful... Everything she really wanted to know – about the Empire, and the attack on the city – seemed to be things that the moogles couldn't be bothered to care about. They seemed content to leave human politics alone, even when those politics turned explosive, and so Terra learned precious little of real importance.

When morning came – or rather, when as soon as Locke was rested enough to think straight, as there was really no way to determine morning or night deep underground – Terra was still fresh and ready for the road.After saying their goodbyes to the moogles, and after a bland but filling breakfast of travel rations from Locke's pack, they left the safe and brightly lit caverns behind and set out once more into the old mines. Locke fumbled briefly in his pack for a lantern, before Terra smiled and shook her head, creating again the globe of fire that she had used to light her way before. The thief stared blankly for a moment, but recovered quickly enough, answering her appraising glance with a grin and a shrug.

"Useful," he said with a wry grin, "Stick with me, kid, and I'll never have to struggle with a campfire again."

_So magic itself doesn't frighten him. _That was good to know, especially since he would undoubtedly be seeing much more of it, and not just the sort used to light campfires. According to the moogles, there were... creatures in these caves, and some of them could be distinctly dangerous.

Locke led her onward through a dizzying maze of winding tunnels, moving with speed and assurance. Each twist and turn seemed to Terra practically indistinguishable from the next, and she knew that without a guide she would have already been hopelessly lost, but the thief seemed to know exactly where he was going. They moved through the caves with hushed vigilance, the only sounds the echoes of their footfalls and the hollow dripping of water somewhere in the distance. Outside the flickering radius of light cast by her fire-globe, the darkness was thick and velvet, and Terra found herself looking back with longing on the bright and comfortable caves they had left... _how long ago? It seems like forever..._

After a time, she became aware that the ground was sloping gradually upward beneath her feet, and there were even times when she imagined she felt a fresh, cool breeze across her face. She thought they might be drawing closer to the surface, and that realization sparked in her a sudden desire to get out from these endless tunnels, a hunger for open space and natural light. There was something in her that hated the claustrophobic darkness and stale air; she felt like an animal in a cage. Before, it had been endurable, if unpleasant. Now, with these tantalizing hints of freedom and fresh air, it took all her willpower to keep herself focused and in control. There was still a part of her that wanted to scream and claw at the bars of her prison, to let loose with fire and blade, anger and fear given form; she suspected that part of her would always exist, but now it was uncomfortably close to the surface. _I need to get out of here..._ the thought echoed and repeated in her mind, _I need to get OUT!_

At last, as the gentle slope of the ground evened out and the walls widened and straightened, beginning to look more as though they were carved by human hand and less by eons of running water, Locke stopped. He was standing before what looked to Terra to be the natural end to a long abandoned tunnel, peering at the wall with a measured and critical gaze.She groaned inwardly. A wrong turn, a dead end? Had the thief gotten them lost? _I'm not sure how much longer I can stand this... _Locke had been so confidant, so assured, navigating the tunnels like he owned them... and, she realized, he didn't look lost now, either. Indeed, when he beckoned her closer, he was wearing a curiously eager smile, like a child about to show off a trick.

"Watch this," he said, turning to a roughly chiseled rock face near the tunnel's end. He ran his hands over the unevenly cut stone, searching and probing, occasionally muttering something unintelligable under his breath. At last, with a whispered "ah-ha!," he pressed down and inward against a small protrusion, which shifted suddenly under his hands. Terra thought she heard a muffled click, a small, definite noise swallowed up almost immediately by the grinding rumble of stone against stone. An entire section of the tunnel shifted and groaned and swung outwards, revealing an icy and barren field. Wind and cleansing cold swept into the cave, and Terra let her sphere of flame vanish in the pristine morning light as she stepped forward, lifting her face and arms to the wind as if in benediction. _Free... I'm free!_ She took a deep breath, th air clear and brittle with a winter sharpness, and realized that she was laughing quietly in wild joy.

Locke stepped up beside her, his sudden and unannounced presence sending her hand reflexively to her sword hilt before she realized who it had to be, her exultation killed by the instinctive jolt of fear and battle-readiness. She would have to remind him not to sneak up on her. She didn't want to hurt him, and knew with stark clarity that given the right circumstances she was very capable of doing so. Killing came all too easily to her, though she hated the idea of it, and her control over her powers and, yes, her moods, was much more tenuous than she would have liked to admit. She would have to remind him to be careful.

"Not many people know about this passage. The Narshe certainly don't, and it's practically on their doorstep. Remember it -- you never know when a secret passage might come in handy. This one saved my life once... say, do you need a jacket?"

Terra hadn't even thought about that, and now that she came to consider it, she found that she didn't. It was cold, but somehow, even with her thin clothing and bare arms, she found the temperature almost pleasant. Her breath puffed out before her in clouds of mist, but she stood easily in the ankle-deep snow, not so much as shivering.

"I think I'll be fine... thank you." She meant it. She suspected that Locke had been prepared to give her his own coat, a fact that she found unexpectedly... touching.

"Yeah," he said weakly, "I... I expect you will." He looked out across the snowy plains, seeming to regain his confidence and direction, then turned back to her.

"It will be open ground around here for a while," he said to her, "So I'd like to try and get through it as quickly as possible. I highly doubt we're being followed at this point, but even so I won't feel safe until we've got some cover. Thief's instincts there, I guess..."

"You mean treasure hunter?" Terra responded, a teasing note in her voice.

Locke laughed out loud. "Yeah. Right, yeah, that's what I said. Now lets go. I want to see how many miles we can make before dark."

ooo

Sitting by the campfire that night, exhausted silence reigned. The girl -- _Terra,_ thought Locke,_ it suits her_ -- was staring moodily into the dancing flames, seemingly oblivious to both the warmth they offered and the withering cold of the night. He wondered what thoughts were hiding behind that impassive face, those fierce, wild eyes. A full day traveling with the girl hadn't made her any less of a mystery. Instead it had merely opened Locke's eyes to the remarkable number of peculiarities and contradictions she seemed to harbor. She was volatile, mercurial in temperament and mood, a creature of sharp and deadly purity... and she was a lost girl, lonely and, in her own way, vulnerable.

There were moments, sudden and fleeting as a spring rain, when she seemed almost childlike, almost literally radiating innocence and a deep desire to be accepted, an eagerness to please that left Locke feeling uncomfortable and out of place. Then those moments passed, leaving her frigid and unreadable as a stone wall, or even suspicious and dangerous. She seldom talked -- her shy joke about the treasure hunter had been startling in its incongruity -- and there were moments that she seemed to retreat into herself, lost inside the vastness of her own thoughts. Locke got the distinct impression that these moments were when she was most dangerous of all.

There had been a few times during the day when they had encountered what Locke called "less than friendly examples of local wildlife," but those battles had been ended remarkably quickly. Terra fought with a frightening intensity, dispatching enemies with a lithe, feral grace or simply burning them to ash where they stood. Despite what Locke believed was a true innocence, she seemed to have a deep well of violence in her, and Locke found himself increasingly grateful that she seemed to have taken kindly to him.

The thief leaned back, stretching aching muscles and joints. They had traveled practically without rest that day, taking breaks only to eat or when they absolutely couldn't force themselves to continue. He was honestly surprised at the progress they had made -- the girl really did look frail, and he had expected her to give out after a few miles. Instead she had matched him step for step, mile for mile, neither complaining nor faltering. Obviously, whatever her life in the Empire had been like, it hadn't been soft.

"So where are we going?" Terra's voice was soft as always, equal parts silk and steel. Locke poked at the fire absently with a stick, trying to think of what to say.

"Figaro Castle," he answered finally, "still some miles to the south. We'll be meeting up with a friend of mine named Edgar, then I'll guess we'll decide what to do from there." He sighed, stretching his arms over his head. "You ought to get some rest, its going to be another hard day tomorrow. I'll take first watch."

ooo

And it was another hard day as was the one after that. They kept up a sharp pace, day after day, as the snow receded and frozen plains gave way to rolling hills, then finally to sparse, barren scrubland. Oak and evergreen were replaced by sage and other plants of the dry country. It wasn't easy going, but although Terra could still remember no more of her old life than fleeting impressions and vague nightmares, she had the distinct feeling that these were the happiest days she had yet known. The empty spaces in her mind were being filled with new memories, memories of Locke whistling some trail-song or showing her the patterns in the stars, memories of companionship and freedom. Her own fear and the sudden anger that still took her at times were distant companions now, still walking beside her but no longer filling her every moment.

At last, they crested one last rise in a spine of harsh, rocky cliffs, and found themselves looking out over the edge into what was no longer dryland but pure desert, empty and white. Rising from the middle of the sand-blown dunes was a great structure of stone and steel, towers rising from the sand in a loose circle around one main hall. The desert air was clear and thin, rendering the sight sharp and definite even at such a distance, and Terra had to admit the view was impressive.

"Is that...?" she whispered.

"Yep," Locke said with a grin, "Figaro castle. Almost there."


	8. Trust

A/N: In case anyone didn't notice, I rewrote chapter 7 recently. If you happened to read it when it was still focusing on Celes, it is VERY different now. Sorry this chapter took so long. It was a combination of lack of internet access, stuff happening in real life (we're planning on moving out of state, and there's a _lot_ to do) and, yes, laziness. By the way, does anyone know how to get paragraph breaks to survive the transition to ff.net, or is it even possible?

Rocket: Thanks, and I'm glad I seem to have redeemed myself.

Seagull12348: I'll try to keep your advice about Locke's personality in mind. My excuse is he was in a serious and stressful situation, so I didn't want to make him too flippant, but the truth is I have an unfortunate tendancy to make everything too serious.

Thanks to both of you guys for telling me what I was doing wrong. I'll try and keep this from getting too bogged down again. If I do, just give me a swift kick in the pants, OK?

ooo

Chapter 8: Trust

ooo

I had come to meet you

with a question in my footsteps,

I was going up the hillside

and the journey just begun

Suzanne Vega, Rosemary

ooo

Figaro castle was no less impressive up close. It rose from the shifting sea of dunes like an iceberg, and Terra got the impression that like an iceberg, the castle had more to it than was immediately apparent. The walls had been scored and weathered by harsh desert winds, but such damage seemed only superficial – the castle itself looked strong and proud in the sharp desert light, bright banners flying from the top of every tower.

"Ah, civilization..." the treasure hunter said, "I don't know about you, but I, personally, am sick of sleeping in a tent and keeping one eye out for monsters. It'll be feather beds and silk sheets for us tonight."

"Are we expected?"

"Probably." He answered with a brief laugh, "We're in the middle of a desert, after all – from up in those towers, you can see everything for miles around. Figaro doesn't get many surprise guests." She nodded, glancing up at the tall watchtowers sprouting around the perimeter of the castle, and the bare, sandy ground rolling off in every direction. It would take considerable skill and luck for even one man to approach the castle unseen.

Uniformed guards stood at attention before the main gate, surveying the two travelers with the flat, professional gaze of soldiers everywhere. They were armed with what looked to Terra to be some form of heavily altered crossbows, sleek and metallic, seemingly built to shoot multiple bolts at once. The guards weren't hostile, but had the appearance of men who could become so at a moment's notice, should circumstances demand it. Terra was suddenly very conscious of her own appearance: rough, travel-weary, somewhat less than clean… she didn't look or feel like someone who would be at welcome in a castle, and she certainly didn't know how to act in front of a king. Locke didn't seem worried, but Locke was hardly the sort of person to be fazed by mere heavily armed guards, and in any case claimed to know his Royal Highness personally. Indeed, the soldiers seemed to recognize Locke on sight, and Terra found herself slightly reassured when their wary demeanor shifted almost immediately to familiar smiles. Terra and Locke were waved through with a simple "oh, its you" and a friendly grin, which the thief returned readily.

Inside the castle itself, Terra became aware of a very slight vibration in the atmosphere, a sort of underlying background hum. She got the sense of powerful machinery at work somewhere beneath her feet, or perhaps running through the structure of the entire castle. _I suppose the people here must get used to it after a while… I wonder what it is. Some kind of weapon, perhaps?_ The idea of modern technology in this ancient-looking stone building seemed deeply incongruous, but Terra suspected that Figaro itself was home to a great many surprises. Locke lead her through the entry room down a large hall, occasionally waving or nodding at liveried servants or guards going about their daily tasks. Terra could feel their eyes on her as she passed, the way they stopped startled when they saw her and their lingering scrutiny as she walked on. Their naked curiosity was different from the quiet fascination she had sensed from the moogles, but no less unsettling. _Locke told me that green hair is unusual, _she told herself. _That's why they're all staring. Or I just don't look like I belong in a castle. _She wasn't certain it was the truth, but it was better than believing that they could all see something in her that she could not, some hidden wrongness or strangeness… She realized suddenly that with the exception of Locke, this was the first time she could remember being in the company of other humans. Perhaps that was why she felt so out of place in that echoing hall, so alien.

Locke paused before a pair of heavy, polished oak doors to speak briefly to the guards on either side, who stepped aside smoothly, bowing their heads slightly in respect. _Just a simple treasure hunter, eh? Right…_ He turned to offer her a reassuring smile, then pushed open the doors and stepped into what was obviously the castle's main hall.

Two ornate golden thrones sat on a raised dais at the end of a long gold carpet of gold and green. Similarly colored banners hung beside high, arching windows, decorated with royal insignia. One throne was occupied by a slim, handsome man in a gold-embroidered blue jacket, his blonde hair pulled back in a loose ponytail and a gilded scepter clutched listlessly in one hand. The king, of course, Edgar, but Terra had to admit he wasn't what she had been expecting. His clothing, though sharply tailored and made of silks and satins of the highest quality, was otherwise simple and practical, and the crown sitting jauntily on his head little more than a thin circlet of gold. There was no air of pomposity about him, no authoritative arrogance. If anything, he seemed slightly distracted. Terra got the impression he would much rather be somewhere else, perhaps reading or researching in some quiet library.

As they stepped through the doors the young king looked up sharply, and his entire demeanor shifted as suddenly and drastically as spring weather. Wherever his mind had been before, it was suddenly back in the moment.

"Locke!" he exclaimed, stepping forward to greet the other man, "Its good to know you're safe. When I heard about events in Narshe, I'd assumed the worst…"

"News travels fast," The thief replied. "Sorry to get your hopes up, but it takes more than magitech armor to get rid of me."

Edgar laughed, then turned his attention to Terra, who had been standing slightly off to the side, unsure of what to do or say. He surveyed her with a sort of absent-minded fascination, his head tilted in unabashed curiosity, and once again she got the impression that his thoughts were wandering somewhere else. She found suddenly that the king reminded her of someone, though she couldn't say who. His searching, studying gaze was all too familiar, as was the mild and impersonal way he examined her. She imagined this was what a specimen in a lab must feel like, some creature in a glass cage living under the piercing scrutiny of others, and she hated it. She wanted to hit the man, to shove him away from her or… _no. Not that, _she rebuked herself firmly, n_ot that. I thought these past weeks taught you some self-control…_ She gritted her teeth and clenched her fists, but stood in silence.

"So, _this_ young woman…" Edgar murmured absently, turning to Locke with a question in his voice. The thief nodded slightly, and suddenly Terra had had enough. This… this _king_ might feel comfortable treating people as though they didn't exist, walking around them and staring and talking like they weren't even there, but she had expected more than that from Locke. She felt betrayed, slightly; she had thought of the thief as a friend, someone who saw her as a person, not a thing. _Am I just a tool to him too? No, no, surely not. I trust him… Still,_ she thought suddenly,_ I'm damned if I'm going to let them talk about me like this, like some… some _specimen_, right in front of my face!_

"Who do you think you are?" she hissed, anger simmering in her veins. It would be unacceptable – _wrong_ – to incinerate the king where he stood, no matter how rude he was being, but surely she had every right to yell at him…

Edgar spun around at the sound of her voice, in some ways truly seeming to notice her for the first time, and to her surprise she found her temper cooling a little.

"Oh… sorry," he said, seeming surprised and honestly upset by his lapse in manners. Perhaps he had simply been lost in his own thoughts, too caught up in whatever he was thinking to really be aware of the outside world and the people in it. It was Terra's turn to feel embarrassed about her actions, and ashamed of the fact that she had even contemplated reacting to rudeness – unintentional rudeness at that – with violence. Even if she hadn't done anything, the desire to hurt the man had been there. It had been a sudden impulse, small and shameful and quickly suppressed, but there, and that fact was impossible to ignore. _I really have to get a grip on myself… This is ridiculous, I can't let anger control me like that. Not everything is a battle, and not every person is an enemy._

Once Edgar finally seemed to register her presence, his attitude underwent another remarkable change. It was as though some switch in his head labeled "charisma" had been flipped on. He offered her a charming smile, and she was sure that if he had had a cape he would have flourished it. Instead he went down on one knee, bowing his head elegantly.

"How rude of me to turn my back to a lady," he said smoothly, rising to his feet again. "I am Edgar, King of Figaro."

"Terra," she responded, bowing her own head politely.

Locke, looking immensely relieved that the pending crisis seemed to have been averted, chimed in, "Surprised someone like me knows a king?"

Edgar responded calmly, "Surprised someone like _me _knows a thie-" but didn't get far before he was interrupted by Locke, who raised one finger in a gesture of warning.

"Go carefully…" Locke said, his voice serious but his eyes teasing.

"Treasure hunter. Whatever you say. You know, it's quite the neurosis you've got there…"

"At least I don't flirt with anything that moves…" Locke answered, bantering, before turning to Terra.

"I've got some things I need to take care of," he said to her. "Talk to you later. If Edgar tries anything, set his eyebrows on fire or something. He deserves it." The king blinked at that, unsure what to make of it, but Locke was already on his way out the door.

"I swear, his sense of humor gets weirder and weirder…" Edgar muttered, then, addressing Terra with all the charm he could muster, continued "So… you're an Imperial soldier? No problem! Figaro and the Empire are allies… Please relax while you're here. It's not in my blood to harm a lady."

She really didn't know what to think of this Edgar. He seemed to be a man of many layers, and perhaps many false faces. On the surface he looked simple: perfectly courteous and perfectly charming, with a flirtatious grin… but there was a penetrating intelligence in those clear blue eyes, a seriousness hiding behind that dashing smile, and she got the impression that he noticed more than he let on. His voice was light and casual, but there was something else underlying the words, an almost… probing quality. _"Figaro and the Empire are allies," _she thought, almost amused. _What a charming liar you are… But you're testing me, aren't you? Where my loyalties lie… but I'm not sure even I know the answer to that question…_ She could feel him watching her, noticing every detail and filing it away for later use, and all the while keeping up his amiable façade. _Who are you? And what are you after?_

"Look," she said to him, "Why are you helping me? Is it because of my abilities?" _Or in other words, I'm not going to play your games._

He looked truly scandalized that she might suspect him of any ulterior motive, but that calm intelligence was still there in his eyes, measuring, weighing…

"My lady," he answered, his voice a strange and, Terra suspected, deliberate combination of offended and amused, "what kind of person do you think I am?"

He laughed to show it was all in fun, and continued, amusement hiding around the corners of his voice, "I'll give you three reasons. Your beauty has captivated me," he exclaimed grandly, "I'm desperate to know how I might win your heart… and, I suppose, your… abilities would be a distant third." Terra rolled her eyes. _At least he was honest about that last part…_

"Do you really expect me to be taken in by such… melodrama?" she inquired, but not harshly.

"I guess my technique's getting a bit rusty," he said with a shrug. "Anyway, feel free to explore the castle. I wish I could be a better host, but I'm afraid I've got a bit of work to do…" He bowed urbanely and sauntered off, leaving her alone in the arching chamber. _No, not alone… he doesn't trust me that far. There'll be guards, somewhere out of sight._

Terra sighed, more confused now than ever. She supposed that anyone else might have found him dashing, but she wasn't anyone else, and she found herself unwilling to take anything about him at face value. _Can I really trust this man? Locke seems to think so, but…_

ooo

King Edgar Roni Figaro swept out of the throne room and through the castle, barely noticing where he was going but still dodging servants and guards with practiced ease as they went about their daily tasks. At last he fetched up at the top of the long staircase leading up to his tower-bedroom. Edgar was always neat and dapper about his personal appearance, except for the occasional oil-stain, but his room was a mess. Every available surface, up to and including the floor, was strewn with books, diagrams and scribbles, not to mention various and sundry unfinished mechanical experiments. Edgar navigated the obstacles with ease and sat down gratefully in front of a desk heaping with papers, resting his head in his hands.

What was Locke thinking, bringing that girl here? An Imperial, a bloody Imperial! Did Narshe snap his sanity?! The Imperial Witch too, by the look of her, thatmysterious living legend that nobody ever admitted they believed, but that everyone whispered about nonetheless. Green hair, all the stories were clear on that, and those golden topaz eyes… beautiful, certainly, but by all accounts quite, quite deadly. _What is she? Not bloody human, that's for sure… and Locke confirmed she _could_ use magic._ That had been typically discreet of him, conveying such important information by means of a joke, but that didn't answer the question of why his trusted friend thought it was a good idea to bring an Imperial sorceress to stay in his castle, especially now with all that was happening.

Edgar scowled, realizing that he wasn't thinking things through. Locke wouldn't have knowingly endangered their cause; either he had been forced to bring the witch here or in his mind she posed no threat, and Locke had given no indication of being forced or given Edgar the secret signal to watch for treachery. Not to mention the fact that the girl hadn't behaved like any Imperial he had ever met. They tended to be an arrogant lot, not to mention confidant in their own power and superiority; this girl Terra was anything but. She had jumped from shyness to open anger to cold suspicion, but all her actions and reactions had suggested she considered him a threat, not the other way around. For some reason the old cliché sprang to mind, _more afraid of you than you are of her._ People were always saying that about things like scorpions and sand rays, but somehow they always neglected to mention that that fact was oftentimes precisely what made such creatures dangerous. Edgar sighed, rubbing his temples. _You've got some explaining to do, Locke… What are you playing at, and what have you gotten us into?_

Edgar wasn't frightened. He had hated and worked against the Empire for years, but he had the prudence and skill to keep any rebellious activities where they belonged – hidden. Even the most meticulous Imperial spy, if that was what the witch-girl was, would be hard-pressed to find or falsify any evidence of treachery, and Edgar didn't think he had given Gestahl any reason to doubt his loyalty. _Discretion is the better part of revolution, that's the truth that I know and my father didn't. You can't fight the bastards openly, no matter how much you want to, not when they're this strong._ That was the lesson he had learned from the old king's death. You had to let them into your cities and your homes, had to smile and fawn and make small talk with their smirking generals over a glass of wine that might or might not be poisoned, the memory of your father's murder still fresh in your mind. And you had to wait, and plan, and hide, because honesty and courage would get more than just you killed. _Sabin took different lessons from that day. But Sabin was… lucky._

Sabin…

Edgar could still remember that day clearly, the one where his brother had finally left to find his destiny and his freedom… Indeed, all memories from those times were as sharp in his mind as reflections in a mirror, and doubtless as distorted. But it was another day running through his mind now, one from before the weight of kingship had landed firmly on his shoulders…

"What's wrong with father?" his brother had asked, his voice full of the anger and desperation of one who cannot accept what he knows to be true. "What's all this talk of his successor? He's not going to die!"

Sabin had been so innocent then. Had he changed, Edgar wondered? Had he been tainted by hardship and pain out there in the world he had chosen, broken by the cruelties of war? Edgar refused to consider the possibility.

But Edgar, the other Edgar, that young boy from a lost time, had been unable to deal with his brother's innocence. He had snapped, taking out his anger at the Empire and his own helplessness in a flood of bitterness.

"Are you blind?" he had snarled, his voice as venomous as the poison that coursed in the old king's veins, "Can't you see how thin his face has become?"

He had shoved Sabin violently out of the way and run down from the high tower, tears blurring his vision, not fast enough to outrun the other boy's call after him, "Brother!" That night had seen the beginning of the distance between them, the gulf that had grown as their father languished and faded and finally died. Before that time the two of them had trusted each other fully, understood each other instinctively. But Edgar retreated into isolation, turning his grief to rage and hatred because such emotions hurt less, and he pushed his brother away. Sabin had left on the night their father had died, but the real rift had happened before then.

Edgar wondered now if it could ever be healed…

"Maybe he was right… " Edgar said aloud. "Maybe this is cowardice. Maybe it is collusion. But I can't see any other way."

ooo

A/N: I hope I didn't screw up Edgar too badly… or Terra's reaction to him, for that matter.


	9. Kefka

A/N: I must confess to stealing – er, treasure hunting? – the idea of the arguing scholars from CelesChere's FF6 novelization, though I made the argument considerably nastier… he he he...

This chapter: Edgar really annoys our friend Kefka, Locke doesn't do much at all, and Terra is her usual emotional wreck of a self. Joy.

Rocket: Thanks for the hint, and I'll try to watch out for too much inner monologue from now on, and work in some more body language. I hope I haven't already fallen into that trap, and you're simply being polite about it...

Evilpoptart: You're not the first person to take issue with the way I write Locke, and I can only say I'll try and make him less ooc from now on. He's still way too serious in this chapter, but I couldn't see any other way to do the one scene he was in... As for Setzer, he's my favorite after Terra, and I'm looking forward to writing him. BTW, about your evil machine... do you suppose a tinfoil hat would do any good?

LadyAegis: Sorry to disapoint you, but while Edgar and Terra will come to trust each other, this is highly unlikely to be a T/E romance. I've just never liked that pairing, for absolutely no logical reason at all...

ooo

Chapter 9: Kefka

ooo

Standing at the point  
The road it cross you down  
What is at your back  
Which way do you turn  
Who will come to find you first  
Your devils or your gods

Tracy Chapman, Crossroads

ooo

King Edgar had invited Terra to explore the castle, and she saw no reason not to. In truth, it seemed like a perfect opportunity to learn. Like a drowning woman, she was caught up in matters she knew next to nothing about, and she needed to figure out how to swim quickly, before she was swept under. But it was more than the earth-shaking events she needed to know about, the sweeping tides of politics and war – she wanted to understand how the world _worked_, all the little things that people took for granted, the mannerisms and nuances of everyday life. And so she set out to explore the life within Figaro's fortress walls, to learn what she could through observation and conversation.

Most people were only too happy to accommodate her curiosity, once they got past the strangeness of her appearance. It seemed both she and Locke had been declared honored guests of the king, to be granted every courtesy and luxury that Figaro had to offer. She wondered where the thief was, but no one seemed to know – or perhaps, no one was willing to tell her – and she never chanced upon him in her wanderings.

She explored everywhere, fascinated and almost overwhelmed by the bustle of life in the castle. It seemed everyone had something to be doing or somewhere to be going; Figaro was its own microcosmic universe, one that had no place for strangers. There were few enough places she wasn't allowed – a basement from which the ever-present hum of machinery seemed to be emanating, for example – and these she was turned away from gently, if firmly. Even the castle's dungeons were open to visitors; from what Terra saw, Edgar seemed to treat his prisoners well, which made her feel a little better about the man. Even so, the small cells made her feel claustrophobic and nervous, as though she was the one looking out from behind bars, and she left Figaro's small jail quickly.

The castle's inhabitants chatted readily about almost everything, from the most mundane to the most serious. She listened to guards who spoke of their worries of war, or discussed the recent attack on Narshe in hushed tones, mingling fact and rumor in a witch's brew of fear. She heard the harmless gossip of maids and other workers, most of which seemed to concern the king's romantic life. Apparently Locke was right, the man _did_ flirt with anything that moved, though whether or not any of his advances had any seriousness to them was sometimes difficult to ascertain.

She heard of Edgar's twin brother, whispered about more quietly than even news of war, a man who had traded the throne for his own freedom. The castle matron, a stern woman dressed in green silks, told her of the runaway prince, and the coin-toss that had decided the kingdom's fate. Terra found the woman's description of young Edgar a little surprising. The angry, idealistic boy-prince the matron spoke of seemed difficult to reconcile with the smooth talking, guileful man she had met, and she had to wonder which image was closer to the truth.

Most people of Figaro seemed to view their ruler with not simply respect but true fellowship; there was little distance between king and commoner here. There was even a little girl who announced cheerfully that she was going to marry the king when she was all grown up. Terra had to smile at that, but it was a strange, tight smile. There was something about the simple, untainted happiness in the child's smile that provoked in Terra a complex, bittersweet emotion, one she could find no name for. Envy, perhaps, or loss, though neither of those labels seemed to fit quite right. She looked away, an almost painful tightness rising in her chest and the back of her throat, though she told herself that she wasn't going to cry. She turned abruptly then and left the room without looking back, and found her way – brushing angrily through halls and up staircases, not caring where she was wandering – to the castle library.

The library was located at the top of a tower close to the castle's east wing. It was a tall, airy room full of dust and sunlight, with cobwebs hanging in the corners and tall shelves running in rows across the polished wooden floor. Leather-bound books of all sizes lined the walls, or were piled haphazardly on various desks and tables, along with ancient and fragile-looking scrolls of parchment or vellum. Robed men and women sat reading and writing amid heaps of books, or talking quietly – for the most part. But the still air was broken by raised voices in one musty corner: Terra had stumbled into an argument in progress.

"I'm telling you," one bespectacled man was saying, quite heatedly, "they _never_ existed. Not even in the good old days, not even with all the myths and nursery rhymes you can dig up. There is absolutely no reliable scientific evidence-"

He was cut off by the other man, who responded angrily, "The king seems to think they do. I suppose he's gone crazy, then? And everyone in Vector too? Scholars all over the world are researching magic, and I think-"

"No, you _don't_ think, and neither does any so-called scholar that believes that kind of trash. Espers and mage knights…" the first man sneered disgustedly. "Silly people, those _scholars_."

Terra stood suddenly paralyzed, watching the two of them in transfixed silence, her hands clenched tightly at her sides. She was distinctly uncomfortable and knew she was being impolite, but she could not bring herself look away. They were discussing – or more accurately, shouting about – matters that might seem academic to them, but every word hit her mind with the force of a hammer blow. She knew that magic existed. She knew only too well. It was a part of her; the heat and life of it flickered along her veins and every cell of her body, burning low and soft but always there, ready to spark into a destroying blaze. A part of her… but not one she understood, or felt confidant in controlling. These two fools didn't seem to know any more about true magic than their own wild speculation and opinions, but even so, hearing them talk about such things was… jarring.

She hovered there for a painfully long moment, torn between interrupting the argument and demanding to know what King Edgar really wanted with magic – and with her – and fleeing the room altogether. She wasn't sure what finally broke her trance, if it was some rustle of paper or fragment of conversation that brought her back to herself or if she had simply heard more than she could take about whether or not magic was truly capable of annihilating entire armies. All she knew was that suddenly she had to get out of there. For the second time that day she fled, running from herself as much as from anything else.

She fetched up at the bottom of the tower, breathing hard and trembling in the desert sun, and not from exhaustion. She leaned against the sun-warmed side of the tower, feeling the solidity and strength of the stone beneath her shaking hands. Her fingers strayed to the crimson jewel at her throat, hanging there like a tiny star, warm with magic. The gem was set in gold, polished smooth and illuminated from within like a glowing ember, and when she touched it she could feel a slight magical charge leap across to her fingers like a static shock, a tiny echo of her own power. She had no more memory of the pendant than anything else, but it belonged to her in a way nothing else in the world did – her gift, her responsibility, its weight in her hand a comforting certainty. It was a link to a life before her awakening in a strange city, and an anchor in a sea of strangeness. She gripped the pendant tightly, willing herself to be strong, and slowly, calm returned. Standing there with the harsh desert light pouring down and the midday shadows falling black around her, she came to a decision: No more running. She may not understand what her place was in this grand tapestry of war and manipulation, but she knew at least one person who did. This time she would not be misdirected or sent off chasing illusions. This time she wanted answers.

ooo

When she approached the throne room she was alone, but the guards made no move to stop her, only watching her with blank and resolute faces. She pushed open the heavy wooden doors and stepped hesitantly inside, her old certainty faltering as she prepared to face King Edgar again. His majesty was inside, leafing through a stack of what looked like mechanical diagrams, a quill pen stuck behind his ear and an ink stain on one cheek. He glanced up as she entered, a charming and possibly even genuine smile spreading across his face.

"Well?" he inquired politely, "How do you like my castle?"

Terra opened her mouth to answer, but before she could speak a word she found herself shoved aside from behind, an anxious guard brushing past her to kneel before the king.

"Your majesty," the man panted, out of breath and red in the face, "A man from the Empire! Here, to see you! We didn't even see him coming. I don't understand how that could have happened… He's waiting in the courtyard, your majesty."

Edgar cursed under his breath, setting his papers aside and rising to his feet, and gesturing the nameless soldier to do the same.

"Probably Kefka… I don't think he'll try anything yet," he said to the guard, "but if he does, you know the drill. Has the engine room been alerted?" _Kefka…_ Terra was suddenly unable to still a shudder, the blood draining from her face at the sound of those two innocuous syllables. Like the slave crown Arvis had shown her, the sound of that name sent icy fingers crawling down her spine, opening a dark chasm in Terra that she hadn't known existed.

The guard nodded, and Edgar continued, "Good. I'll take care of this personally." He removed the quill from his ear and wiped the ink off his face, adjusted his silk coat and the thin golden circlet on his head, and suddenly he looked very much the king. He turned to Terra, his eyes commanding.

"_You_ stay out of sight." He told her. "Even if this has nothing to do with you, which I find frankly doubtful to say the least, I think it best if Kefka doesn't know you're here."

Terra still wasn't sure whether she liked the king or not, and she certainly didn't trust him, but what he said rang true. Letting this Kefka see her seemed like a very bad idea indeed. She certainly didn't want to set eyes on the man – but at the same time, she almost had to. She wasn't certain she could stand the idea of the man so close but out of sight.

"Is there… is there somewhere that I can watch from safety?" she asked, trying and failing to keep the tremor from her voice. The king looked at her sharply. His face was carefully blank, but an unreadable emotion flickered in his eyes and was gone. _Pity?_

He watched her for a second, then said, "As you wish, my lady." He gestured to the guard still standing at attention. "Take her to one of the spy-holes on the second floor. And stay with her."

"Sir." The guard said with a sharp salute, then, addressing Terra. "If you will come with me, milady?"

Terra hurriedly followed the nameless guard up a flight of stairs and into a small room overlooking Figaro's courtyard. Archery slits lined the plain walls, allowing the castle's defenders to rain death down on an invading army, though judging by the dust coating the bare floor, it had been quite a while since the room was used in such a manner. Even so, the thin windows – disguised so as to be undetectable to an observer on the ground floor – served the purpose of allowing a person to watch unseen.

Terra peered down at the scene before her, her breath catching in her throat. She could see clearly from this height, every detail picked out by the bright midday light and her own sharp eyes. Standing impatiently in the sandy courtyard, flanked by two brown-uniformed soldiers, was a figure she knew on sight to be Kefka. With white greasepaint rubbed across his thin, delicate features and an elaborate costume, complete with cape, puffed sleeves and a lacy ruff around his neck, the man looked like nothing so much as a carnival doll. The sight would have been ridiculous, but for the emotions it invoked in her, sick fear and a dull, helpless rage. A low growl rose in her throat at the sight of the man, and her fingers clenched reflexively around the hilt of her sword, prompting the guard to look at her askance and step away nervously.

She could kill the man from here, she realized. But not without harming the king too; Edgar was down there as well, already exchanging false pleasantries with the Imperial ambassador, wearing that dashing smile of his like a shield. Close as the two were, Terra would be unable to cast a spell without affecting them both. Anyway, she realized, such an action would not be without consequence for the inhabitants of Figaro, the very people she had talked to today. She couldn't bring Imperial retribution down on their heads, no matter what happened. The very idea made her slightly sick.

Their voices were faint, but easily audible to her keen senses. She leaned forward, straining to hear every detail and nuance of the conversation. She knew that the easy thing, the _smart_ thing for Edgar to do would be to turn her in right now and forget about the whole matter. He owed her nothing, and Kefka seemed like a dangerous man to cross. She held her breath and stared down at the two figures, waiting for the words to come.

ooo

Edgar strode into the sandy, sunlit courtyard, his face set in a friendly mask. Waiting impatiently, with an arrogant tilt to his pointed chin and a sneer curling his thin, blood-red lips, was General Kefka himself, mad buffoon that he was. The man, decked in beads, feathers and bright colors, looked nothing short of outrageous, his high cheeks touched with crimson paint and his eyes dark. The two Imperial officers behind him were faceless in their brown helmets, but the way they constantly shifted on their booted feet betrayed a nervousness that Edgar suspected had everything to do with their commander's volatility.

The king stepped forward to greet the trio, offering a low bow. He hated doing this, hated playing the fool and the sycophant, but once again he was faced with no choice. He knew he was good at it, at that, and as long as such deception was necessary he might as well make a pretty show of it.

"What brings Lord Kefka, humble servant of his Imperial Majesty, into our lowly presence?" Edgar asked, infusing his voice with careful respect. He grimaced inwardly – _I'm really laying it on thick_ – but he knew that such behavior, genuine or not, was exactly the sort of thing that would please this pompous clown.

"A girl of no importance recently escaped from us," Kefka replied, glancing around the courtyard as though he expected to see his quarry hiding in some shadow. "We heard she found refuge here…"

Edgar tilted his head in a curious, considering gesture, radiating slightly inquisitive innocence. He thought for a moment, letting the silence build up. _Time to put him on edge,_ the king decided.

"This wouldn't have anything to do with this witch everyone's been whispering about, would it?" the he mused aloud. "They say she's gone renegade…" _Now he'll have to wonder who else out there knows… _Locke had explained the situation earlier that morning, and as far as he knew the two of them were the only ones out there to know that the Imperial Sorceress had turned traitor, but Kefka had no way of knowing that.

"Lies!" Kefka said emphatically, his high voice tinged with alarm. "She… she merely stole something of minor value. Now, is she here or not?!" Edgar almost laughed. _Not a very good liar, are you…_

He shrugged languidly, scrubbing a hand through his blonde hair. "That's a tough one," he said cheerfully.

"You see," he continued, gesturing widely at the desert around him, "There are more girls here than grains of sand out there. I can't possibly keep track of them all!" Kefka's irritation was almost palpable, and Edgar grinned. The Imperial general was in quite the situation… he had come expecting immediate and cowering obedience, and came unprepared for an attack. Instead he found himself met with a friendly, foolish blank wall, revealing nothing and conceding nothing. The man knew Edgar was holding something back, but at the moment there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. _Excellent_, Edgar thought to himself, savoring the impotent rage in the general's eyes. _The thing only thing that makes this game worth playing is that sometimes you win._

Kefka moved like an adder, lunging forward to catch the king around the throat. He lifted Edgar off his feet, those thin limbs betraying a deceptive, inhuman strength.

"I'd hate to be you if we find out you're lying," the general hissed, fixing Edgar with a venomous stare. Edgar met his hate-filled gaze, staring into the pit of madness looming behind those dark eyes, and did not look away.

Kefka dug his sharp fingernails into Edgar's neck, his sudden, snarling smile flecked with spit and madness. Unflinching, the king offered a smile of his own, ignoring the pain and the small worm of fear twisting in his heart. _He won't try anything now. He's crazy, but he's not stupid… he knows that if I'm harmed he won't leave here alive._ Sure enough, Kefka flung him down on the sand after a few moments, conceding temporary defeat. Edgar went sprawling, but got up smoothly, brushing the sand from his silk coat, appearing completely unfazed.

The madman regarded him with virulent contempt, snarling like a rabid dog. "I truly hope nothing happens to your precious Figaro," the man managed to sneer, then stalked off the way he had come, those soldiers following on his heels. As soon as the general was beyond the castle walls, Edgar drew a ragged breath, tension draining from him and leaving him feeling weak and drained. He rubbed at his neck, and his fingers came away red.

"Damn," he managed, forcing his voice to sound casual. "There goes that collar. I _hate_ when he does that." It wouldn't do for the inhabitants of Figaro to see their leader shaken.

Locke stepped into the courtyard, leaving whatever hiding place he had occupied during the confrontation. Edgar had no doubt that his old friend had heard every word that had been spoken.

"I'd say that guy's missing a few buttons…" the thief muttered, tapping his head knowingly.

"Have you seen the girl?" Edgar asked him, suddenly remembering the sorceress's presence. He wondered what she had made of the conversation.

As if on cue, Terra materialized, peeking cautiously from behind the castle door. Edgar blinked in shock when he got a good look at her face: she looked haggard, ashen, her exotic eyes wide and darting around the courtyard. She looked hunted. _Appropriate, since it certainly seems that she is…_ It wouldn't be safe to keep her in Figaro for much longer, for her or anyone else.

Edgar didn't understand how the Empire had found the girl so fast. He had no doubt that the Vector had its spies in the castle, but the speed of the response completely ruled out their involvement in the matter. The only possibility was that the Kefka knew to consider Figaro a possible refuge for enemies of the Empire. It wasn't a pleasant thought.

As for the girl… Edgar had no idea what to do with her in the long run, but for now she looked like she needed nothing more than time to rest and unwind, a bit of peace and solitude.

"Maybe you should show her to her room…" Edgar said to Locke. "she looks pretty beat."

The thief shrugged. "Sure." He turned to Terra. "C'mon, follow me. It'll be all right, Edgar knows what he's doing… most of the time…" Terra's mouth quirked into a slight smile at that, but her eyes didn't lose their hunted look. Edgar sighed… he wished she could find some security within the walls of his castle, but he honestly doubted anywhere was safe from the Empire anymore. He wouldn't be surprised to face an attack before tomorrow was over.

"I'd love to chat with you," he said brightly to Terra, smoothly assuming the role he was known for, "but the chancellor and I must plan our strategy." He sighed genteelly. "Sometimes I truly hate being a king… If you'll excuse me, my lady?" He bowed elaborately, and strode off into Figaro's halls, plans already circling in his mind.

ooo

Terra followed Locke to a small tower room, furnished simply but comfortably with a carved wooden dresser, a tall mirror, high-backed chair with velvet cushions, and what did indeed appear to be a feather bed with silk sheets. Locke plopped down in the chair, crossing his legs comfortably on the footrest, and motioned her to take the bed. She sat down stiffly, sinking into the soft mattress with a start.

"Don't you worry 'bout a thing!" he was saying enthusiastically. "I'll – "

"Locke?" she interrupted quietly.

"Yeah?"

"What does Edgar want? With me, I mean?"

Locke thought silently for a moment, then said slowly, "It's a long story. On the surface Edgar pretends to support the Empire, but in truth he's collaborating with the Returners. That's an organization devoted to opposing the Empire. I," he added with an exaggeratedly self-satisfied air, "am his contact with that group."

"The old man you met in Narshe is also one of us," he added, seemingly as an afterthought.

"Empire…" Terra mused, staring down at her hands. "The soldiers who chased me in Narshe said I was an Imperial soldier."

Locke shook his head emphatically. "No! No, that's not true at all! They were using you!"

Terra looked up, watching him uncertainly. Arvis had said the same thing, and she didn't doubt it, but who was to say that these Returners weren't using her as well, in their own way? She certainly made a powerful enough weapon.

She shook her head savagely, fighting back tears. It hurt to doubt Locke, but at the moment it was hard for her to trust anyone.

"But not anymore," the thief promised, looking into her eyes. "Things are different now…" She looked away.

"I don't understand…" she whispered. "What should I do?"

"I can't tell you that," Locke said gently, "but I can tell you one thing: you don't have to decide anything right now."

He got up and walked over to where she was sitting, smiling a reassuring smile.

"Don't worry," he said, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. "You'll soon find your way."

She jerked her hand away, snarling. Surely the idiot had learned not to touch her by now! Then, realizing what she had done, she looked down in shame. Locke had treated her with nothing but kindness; he wasn't the sort to hurt anyone.

"I don't… I…" she said weakly, turning away from the thief's comforting eyes.

"Go away!" she snapped suddenly. "Leave me alone. Just… go. Please."

"All right." Locke said, maddeningly reasonable. "I'm sorry. I'll talk to you later." With that, he stepped calmly out of the room, the door swinging shut behind him with a click. _He's sorry?_ Terra thought in despairing disbelief. _I snap at my only friend like a beaten dog, and_ he's_ sorry?_

She fell backward on the bed with a soft poof, her arms spread out beside her, staring at the ceiling with tears blurring her vision. She had to make a choice, she knew. She could join the Returners in their fight, continuing to let herself be used as a weapon for a cause and a group she knew next to nothing about. She could trust Locke, the man who had saved her life, and Edgar, who had risked his life and kingdom for her today. Or she could turn away from them and their war, refusing to let herself be an instrument of destruction any longer. Locke had told her she had to find her own way.

"But…" she said aloud, "how will I know which way is right…"


	10. Flight from Figaro

A/N: I apologize for taking so long with this chapter. My life these past few weeks has been consumed by cleaning and helping fix my house up in preparation for trying to sell the place, and I haven't had a lot of free time. I don't know how long this state of affairs will last. Anyway, if this chapter sucks horribly, that's probably because it was hastily written in between bouts of housework, and I was distracted. I'm not saying it _does_ suck horribly, I'm just saying that _if_ it does, which it might, there is a good reason why.

Chapter 10: Flight from Figaro

ooo

__

Just a roll, just a roll

Just a roll on the drum

Just a roll, just a roll

And the war has begun

Now the right thing's the wrong thing

No more excuses to come

Just one step at a time

And the war has begun

Fairport Convention, Sloth

ooo

Terra woke abruptly in the depths of night, sharp, sudden fear pulsing through her. Something was wrong. She bolted upright, grasping reflexively for the sword by her bed even as her mind began to register details. A dim, ruddy glow filled the night, casting the small room into deep shadow and flickering light. Fires were burning somewhere below. The sounds of battle drifted up to catch her ears, clashes and shouts and grating screams. She stumbled to the window, breath catching in her throat, her sword gripped numbly in one hand. The reverberating pulse of magic crackled in her head.

Night lent the scene below her a strangely tenuous quality, as though she had stepped into some dark, feverish dream. Figaro Guards battled helmeted, brown-uniformed soldiers along the outer walls, firelight glinting off weapons and armor, the darkness periodically broken by blinding flares and thunderous explosions of sound. Heavy, hulking war machines waded through the fray, letting loose with bolts of flame and crackling energy. There weren't many of them, but the magic-wielding machines were taking a heavy toll.

"No," Terra whispered aloud, shock and resignation warring in her voice. _This is my fault,_ she realized with dull horror. _I brought this on them._ She felt sick. Nauseous guilt and fear rose in her, tempered by anger and a sudden, steely resolve. Her hands clenched around the hilt of her sword as she stared down at the battle below, eyes narrowing. She had to stop this, had to find some way to make it end.

The door behind her crashed open, hitting the wall with a ringing slam. She snapped around with whirlwind speed, fire already flickering in her hands as she spun to meet the intruder. It was only Locke, breathless and ashen-faced.

"Terra," he gasped, "Thank the gods! C'mon, we've got to get you out of here."

She shook her head wildly. "What about the castle? We can't – we have to – I can help them!"

"No way," Locke answered, taking her firmly by the shoulders. "Are you crazy? You're the one they're after!"

"But Figaro –"

"Will be fine, as soon as we get you out," the thief said tersely, "Trust me on this, all right? We have to hurry." He grabbed her wrist and pulled her after him, quickly but as gently as possible, under the circumstances. Dazed and half-paralyzed with shock, Terra could do little but follow Locke's lead. She stumbled blindly after him, barely aware of the path he took through the Figaro's back halls, or of the frantic chaos of a castle under attack. Civilians and occasional soldiers rushed past them on incomprehensible, urgent errands, taking no notice of the thief of the green-haired witch-girl winding their way through their midst. He led her at last to a small annex behind the castle proper, brushing past the few, nervous guards with a wave of his hand.

The room appeared to be some kind of stable. The floor was strewn with straw, and a musky, animal scent filled the air. Slatted wooden stalls lined the walls, and Terra could sense the rustling movement of large creatures in the flickering half-light. She stayed close to Locke, glancing around nervously. The thief paused for a moment in thought, then unlatched the door to one of the stalls. Terra stepped closer, curious to see what manner of beast was held within.

It was a gigantic bird, long-legged and powerful, covered in violently yellow plumage. The creature stood taller than she was, from the top of its feathered crest to the tips of its sharply taloned feet, and it seemed built for running. It regarded her warily with one wild, imperious eye, swinging its head from side to side and ruffling its feathers. She stepped closer, curious, and it drew back with a menacing hiss.

Terra jumped away in spite of herself. "I don't think it likes me very much," she said quietly.

"Don't worry," Locke answered with a tense smile, busy examining the other birds in the stable. "It's just a chocobo. Even the wild ones never attack humans, and tame ones like these are really gentle. Pet him if you like, he won't bite."

Terra reached out a tentative hand, only to jerk it back sharply as the chocobo reared up, squawking and flapping its great wings, snapping at her with a sharp, dangerous looking beak. Tame or not, the creature looked half wild now, and ready to bolt at any moment. Terra looked helplessly at Locke.

"I definitely don't think it likes me very much," she repeated.

Locke shrugged, nonplused. "I'm sorry, they're usually very good with strangers. The fighting out there must've made him skittish." That said, the thief set to work calming the great bird, stroking its feathers and cooing soothingly. Soon enough the chocobo was back under control. Locke pointed to a large box against one wall, filled with some kind of leafy vegetable that Terra had never seen before.

"Give him some of those," he said to her. "They're gysahl greens, chocobos love 'em."

She grabbed a handful of the greens and offered them slowly to the chocobo, moving with unthreatening care. The bird fidgeted anxiously under Locke's hands, regarding her as it might a predator, but slowly it stretched its long neck down to take the gift, examining her warily.

"Great, I think he's starting to trust you." Locke said encouragingly. "Try petting him now."

Terra reached out cautiously, running her fingers through the soft feathers, scratching the bird's head. This time, instead of rearing back the creature warbled with contentment. Despite all that was happening outside, Terra found herself smiling slightly. It was nice to be trusted.

ooo

Edgar cursed inwardly. He had known an attack was coming, but he hadn't expected one so soon. He had thought it would take time for Kefka to marshal his forces, but in hindsight it seemed likely that the mad general had this planned all along. The man's visit had been a mere formality, or possibly an opportunity to gloat.

_How could I have been so _stupid_?_ He furiously slammed a fist into his open palm, muttering imprecations against Kefka and the Empire and his own damnable shortsightedness. He hoped the psychotic general was sane enough to respect a parley flag; he needed to buy Locke and Terra some time. He stormed out to the castle's ramparts, waving the flag like a talisman. His other hand held his signature crossbow, a weapon perfected by years of tinkering. He hoped he wouldn't have to use it just yet.

General Kefka was standing amid the carnage, giggling with glee, seemingly untroubled by the fact that most of the dead were his own. The madman looked up, icy amusement painting his pale face, and gestured languidly for his troops to stop the attack. Most of them obeyed.

"What is this?" Edgar shouted down at him. "You attack your allies? There has always been peace between Figaro and the Empire."

Kefka smiled coldly. "Bring me the girl," he snapped. "Now!"

Edgar shook his head, feigning bewilderment. "I told you, we have no girl here! Call off your troops!" The general literally threw back his head and laughed, a high, chilling sound that sent shivers down Edgar's spine.

"You persist in this… charade?" Kefka sneered. "Then, welcome to my barbecue!" With that, the man flung an arm out, fire leaping from his thin fingers as he giggled like some lunatic child. The flames passed over Edgar's head and broke like a wave on Figaro's walls, harmless but uncomfortably close. A warning shot. The king of Figaro knew that, but when he flinched and threw his arms up to shield his face, it wasn't an act. He turned to the guard beside him, who was white-faced and shaking from the close call he had just survived, and whispered to him to tell the chancellor to get ready. The man nodded sharply, and retreated back into the castle's protection with obvious relief.

Edgar looked down, raising the singed flag once more.

"It seems I have no choice," he said slowly, filling his voice with bitter resignation. "I'll get her for you now. And then you leave Figaro in peace!"

"Of course," Kefka smirked. _Lying bastard,_ Edgar thought to himself. _Prepare for the unpleasant surprise of your life._

ooo

Terra held on to the running chocobo for dear life, leaning into the creature's strong, feathered neck and praying to any gods who might be listening not to let her fall. She really didn't know how to ride one of these things, and she was sure at any moment she would be thrown to the ground and trampled. Locke had assured her that she didn't need to know how, that the chocobo was well trained and all she needed to do was hang on tight. Be that as it may, the giant bird seemed just as frightened to be carrying her as she was to be riding it, and at the moment she would almost rather take her chances against the Imperial soldiers. Fighting, at least, she understood.

Locke was ahead of her, riding a chocobo of his own with confident ease, and a riderless bird ran beside her, apparently meant for Edgar. As they neared a tall, arched buttress, Locke called out to the king, who according to Locke was waiting above. They passed beneath the arch, and sure enough, the king plummeted from the sky with a shout, landing atop the running chocobo with surprising grace, a crossbow clutched in one hand. Terra was impressed.

Kefka was amused. "Shameful that a king should flee, leaving his people to die!" the madman crowed. "How utterly delightful." Edgar only laughed triumphantly.

"Dive!" he shouted, "Dive now!"

Mechanical noises filled the air, loud clanks and rumbles, and the chocobos reared up frantically as the ground beneath them began to shake. It felt like an earthquake, sonorous and terrifying. Terra's curiosity overcame her fear, and she looked back over her shoulder to see a very strange sight. The huge castle seemed to be folding in on itself, towers and ramparts drawn inward, doors and windows sealing with a clang. Then, ponderously, the entire structure actually started to sink into the desert, the stunned Imperial soldiers unable to do a thing in response. Within minutes, the castle had vanished beneath the sands. _That's not possible,_ thought Terra. T_hat is _not_ possible!_

"No one can defeat the people of Figaro," Edgar shouted, firing his crossbow back into the ranks of the pursuing soldiers. Locke gave an exuberant, wordless cheer, throwing his fists in the air and whooping like a madman.

"Get them!" Kefka was screaming, somewhere behind her. "I want the girl alive. Kill the others! Kill them!" A spray of bullets hit the sand around her, causing her chocobo to balk and veer wildly, out of control. She shrieked and clung to the bird tightly, which only maddened it more. She thought the terrified creature would throw her to the ground, but suddenly the king was there, reining the chocobo in skillfully.

There was the sharp crack of gunfire, and Edgar jerked forward, blood already spreading across the sleeve and side of his perfectly tailored silk coat. He gave a strangled cry of pain, and looked on the brink of falling, but he clung tightly to his chocobo, gritting his teeth, and returned fire with his good arm. Locke circled back around to help Edgar, but the thief and his knives could do little in this fight. Terra looked back to see the Imperial infantry aiming and preparing to fire once more, and two of the giant armored machines thundering after them, firing lasers hot enough to turn the sand they hit to smoldering glass. _We're going to die,_ she thought with a curiously flat indifference, beyond even fear. She could see Kefka capering in the background, shaking his fist and raving. The lunatic met her eyes, and a slow, cruel smile spread across his painted face. Terra shuddered, tears rising in her eyes.

Her power came to her then, unbidden and barely controlled. She concentrated, trying to regain her hold on the energy raging in her, trembling with the effort of keeping the magic in check. Slowly, she cleared her mind of everything but the battle. Focusing on the shadowy shapes of their pursuers, she finally abandoned control, let loose her power with a shriek of fury. Flames washed across the battlefield, searing the Imperial soldiers where they stood. Terra hated this. She hated killing, felt every enemy death like a dagger to her soul, but she couldn't stop. She was caught up in the blaze, and could no more still the magic coursing through her than she could stop an avalanche with her bare hands. Worse still, there was a part of her that welcomed this wild release. A part of her that reveled in it.

The surviving foot soldiers fell back, unable to keep pace with the racing chocobos and unwilling to face the inferno that met them if they tried, but the war machines kept up their measured and surprisingly fast tread, firing as they went. They kept coming long after the three fugitives had left Kefka and the rest of his army in the dust.

"We can't outrun them," Terra heard Edgar shout. "We'll have to fight."

"We'll be slaughtered!" the thief responded in disbelief. "Do you have any idea how badly those things trashed Narshe? We can't fight magitech armor."

"No choice," came the king's grim reply.

Terra flung fire at the things, the… magitech armor in a continual barrage, but it was difficult to tell if her assault was doing any good. Sparks flew and metal scorched, and smoke poured from a dozen small holes in the machines' armored plates, but they didn't seem to be faltering, and Terra knew she couldn't keep up this torrent of magic forever. She had gotten little sleep, and fear and stress had taken their toll, leaving her in poor condition to fight a battle. Already, her head was beginning to ache, and it was becoming an effort to gather the power necessary for each magical strike.

Everything was a blur. Dimly, she registered her friends fighting beside her. Edgar, looking sick and pale with pain, was struggling to reload his crossbow with a wounded arm. Locke leapt from the back of his chocobo just in time to dodge a searing blast of magical energy. The riderless bird fled across the desert, leaping and flapping its wings as if trying to fly. The thief rolled on the sand and came up with a dagger in each hand, staring after his vanished mount and cursing angrily.

Locke then did something very brave and very reckless. He ran toward one of the machines, still muttering expletives under his breath. The armor's pilot obviously hadn't expected the sudden assault, which bought the thief some time to clamber up the machine, slicing at tubes and wires with his knives. The pilot tried to dislodge him, but the thief clung like a crab, stabbing and cutting the metal hulk. Terra turned her attention to the other machine.

Focusing her mind on the magitech armor, she concentrated, summoning up her deepest reserves of strength. She needed to destroy this thing, and she needed to do it soon; none of them would survive much longer if she didn't.

"Help me do this," she whispered aloud, clutching her pendant in one pale hand. "Help me…" She had no idea to whom she was talking, to herself or some desert spirit, or something far stranger even than that, but the words brought her the strength she needed. Magic filled her in a burning tide, stronger than it ever had before. She gathered up the rising power and released it, flinging out a hand toward the magitech armor, fire rushing through her veins. Rising flames washed over the machine in a searing torrent, smoke and steam pouring off it in waves. Some kind of fuel tank must have at last ignited, because, with a thunderous boom and a ballooning cloud of boiling smoke, the machine exploded from within. All that was left was a smoldering shell, blackened and smoking, and the ash gently drifting in the suddenly silent air.

Swaying with exhaustion, Terra wiped the sweat from her aching brow. Tiny blobs swam dizzyingly behind her eyes, and it was getting difficult to keep from falling off her chocobo. Her hands didn't seem to want to hold on like they should. She drew in a sharp, shuddering breath and forced herself to look around, to see if her friends were all right.

Thankfully, it seemed Locke and Edgar working together had managed to disable the other machine. It had halted in mid-step, sparks flying from its joints, and the pilot lay dead on the sand with several crossbow bolts protruding from his chest. Terra looked away from the corpse, forcing away the acidic guilt rising in her chest. _He would have done the same to us,_ she told herself grimly. _They all would have. They were enemies._ Even so, the image of the dead man's waxen face was a difficult one to dispel.

A stifled noise of pain drew her eyes away from the magitech armor's wreckage. Locke was busy binding Edgar's wounds, and the king was trying not to make a sound. He was pale with pain and loss of blood, but he wore a hard, victorious smile. Locke glanced up at her, grinning, his face smeared with grime, sweat and blood which might have been his own.

"Whaddaya know," he said, his voice weak with relief, "We survived. Who'd have thought it?"

Terra slid off her chocobo and stepped over to the two of them, careful not to let herself stumble – she couldn't let either of them think her weak. It was difficult to think quite clearly at the moment, but Edgar's injury was bothering her. It didn't seem right that one of her friends should be hurt. She wanted to make things better.

Edgar looked up as she approached, flinching back involuntarily, a strange expression flitting across his face. She thought it might be fear. That wasn't right, she didn't want to hurt the man, not any more. She had to help him. She reached toward the king, but Locke stopped her, gently grabbing her wrist.

"What are you doing?" he asked. "Terra, let me do this."

"No…" she said faintly, pushing Locke's hand away. "let me… I can… I want to help…"

The magic was gentler this time, quieter. As she ran her hands over the king's bandaged arm it washed over her with the softness of spring rain, cool and light. Edgar gasped in surprise, touching the blood stained bandage with awe on his face.

"Edgar?" Locke asked uncertainly.

"It's all right," the king said with a terse, strange laugh. "Damned if miracle girl here didn't heal me."

Terra smiled like a child. "Told you… told you I could help…" she said softly, trailing off into silence. She swayed again, the world blurring before her eyes, and started to fall. Locke caught her and propped her up in his arms.

"Terra," he said, his worried voice sounding curiously distant, "Are you OK?"

"Fine," she managed, getting unsteadily to her feet. "Just… tired…"

"Are you fit to travel?" Edgar asked her, almost sharply. "You can bet Kefka hasn't forgotten about us. We need to leave now."

"She can ride with me," Locke said. "We're down a chocobo anyway."

Locke lifted her gently onto her chocobo's back, and clambered up behind her, calming the bird's squawks of indignation.

"You really wore yourself out, didn't you?" he was saying quietly. "Sleep a bit, if you like. I won't let you fall."

With that, they were off again, racing across the moon-silvered sands. The desert air was sharp and cool, the sky above sprinkled with millions of clear, bright-burning stars, and the night journey seemed imbued with a dreamlike strangeness. When not running for their lives, the chocobos had a steady, rocking gait, rhythmic and lulling. Leaning back against Locke's chest, Terra did indeed find herself drifting into sleep. The world swept by in a blur, dream indistinguishable from waking. She wasn't certain how much time had passed before she became aware of a quiet argument going on around her.

"You saw what she did, back there." Edgar was whispering urgently. "She took those guys apart!" There was fear in his voice. Terra stirred sleepily, the king's words pulling her back across the border into wakefulness. He was talking about her.

"She saved our asses, is what she did." Locke replied flatly.

"I know," the king said, shaking his head angrily. "I know. Its just that… well… that was magic, Locke! _Magic!_"

"You didn't know she could use magic?"

"Of course I did, but… I never really understood how dangerous it could be. How dangerous _she_ could – " Edgar cut off abruptly, watching her with an inscrutable expression on his face. She was willing to bet he knew she was awake, and listening.

"I'm sorry…" she whispered. "I… um… I'm sorry…" She knew she was dangerous, probably more dangerous than even Edgar realized. She wasn't proud of that fact, but she couldn't deny it, and there was really nothing she could find to say.

"Look," said Locke quietly to Edgar, "We don't have to make such a big deal of this. Terra can use magic, and we can't. That's the only difference between us. The fact is, we could use her help."

Edgar was silent for a long moment, regarding Terra with reserved scrutiny. Then, at last, he nodded slowly. "Of course." he said quietly, "Please forgive my rudeness. It's just that I've never actually seen magic before, and it left me… shaken. But I am pleased and honored to travel with a woman of your power, and your beauty." The king's smile was impish, and Terra thought she heard Locke snicker at his words, but she also got the impression that the apology was genuine.

"Thank you, Locke," she murmured sleepily, already slipping back into reverie, "thank you Edgar."

She slept.


End file.
